Precious Lord

Words to an old song: Precious Lord seem rather fitting for you guys and TYLER AND TONYA WE CAN'T WAIT FOR GOD TO "LEAD YOU HOME TO MUNDAY".

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 REST OF THE STORY

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 peace-fully. 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 same 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 anymore 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 one friend. 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 that 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-
For those too young to know who he is , Tommy Dorsey was a band leader in the Thirties and Forties.