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 our 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 the 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 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 the 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 carefully to Him. But still 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
Poor 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 peace. I felt at 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.
SOUND BITES
Something
to chew on that is good for the soul.
