Precious Lord

The true story of the hymn "Precious Lord"
( You might be surprised by the composer, I was.
One never knows from another's profession whether they are a Christian or not. This is a sad, but true story. I looked up the song and sure enough, it WAS written by said composer. )
THE 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 Southside.
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, once 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