BIRTH OF THE SONG "PRECIOUS LORD"

Back  in 1932 I was 32 years old and a fairly new husband. My wife,
Nettie and I  were living in a little apartment on Chicago's south side.  One
hot August afternoon I had to go to St. Louis, where I was to be the featured
soloist at a large revival meeting. I didn't want to go. Nettie was in the  last
month of pregnancy with our first child. But a lot of people were expecting
me in St Louis.

I  kissed Nettie good-bye, clattered downstairs to our Model A and, in a
fresh  Lake Michigan breeze, chugged out of Chicago on Route 66. However,
outside the city, I discovered that in my anxiety at leaving, I had forgotten my
music case.  I wheeled around and headed back. I found Nettie sleeping
peacefully. I hesitated by her bed; something was strongly telling me to stay.  But
eager to get on my way, and not wanting to disturb Nettie, I  shrugged off the
feeling and quietly slipped out of the room with my music.  The next night, in the steaming
St. Louis heat, the crowd called on me to  sing again and again.

When  I finally sat down, a messenger boy ran up with a Western Union
telegram. I  ripped open the envelope. Pasted on the yellow sheet were
the words:  YOUR WIFE JUST DIED. People were happily singing and clapping
around me, but I could hardly keep from crying out. I rushed to a phone and called
home. All I could hear on the other end was "Nettie is dead. Nettie is dead."  When
I got back, I learned that Nettie had given birth to a boy. I  swung between grief
and  joy. Yet that night, the baby died. I buried  Nettie and our little boy together,
in the same casket. Then I fell apart.  For days I closeted myself.
I felt that God had done me an injustice. I  didn't want to serve Him any more
or write gospel songs. I just wanted to go  back to that jazz world I once knew so well.

But  then, as I hunched alone in that dark apartment those first sad days,
I thought back to the afternoon I went to St. Louis. Something kept telling me
to stay with Nettie. Was that something God? Oh, if I had paid more
attention to Him that day, I would have stayed and been with Nettie when
she died.
From that day on I vowed to listen more closely to Him. But  still I was lost
in grief.

Everyone  was kind to me, especially a friend, Professor Fry, who seemed
to know what  I needed. On the following Saturday evening he took me up to
Malone's Poro  College, a neighborhood music school. It was quiet; the
late evening sun  crept through the curtained windows.  I sat down at the piano, and
my hands began to browse over the keys.

Something  happened to me then. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could
reach out and  touch God. I found myself playing a melody, one into my
head-they just  seemed to fall into place:

Precious  Lord, take my hand,

lead  me on, let me stand!

I  am tired, I am weak,

I  am worn, Through the storm, through the night lead me on to the light,
Take  my hand, precious Lord, Lead me home.

The   Lord  gave  me  these  words  and  melody, He  also healed my
spirit. I learned that when we are in our deepest grief, when  we feel farthest
from God, this is when He is closest, and when we are most  open to His
restoring power. And so I go on living for God  willingly and joyfully,
 until that day comes when He will take me and gently  lead me  home.

Tommy  Dorsey

Did  you know that Tommy Dorsey wrote this song? I sure didn't. What a
wonderful  story of how God CAN heal the brokenhearted.