Birth of the Song
"Precious Lord"
Written by Tommy Dorsey
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 moment 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. '´
As 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.
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