The 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.
“The Birth of “Precious Lord” by Tommy A. Dorsey, GUIDEPOST
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The faith to move mountains
is the reward of those
who have moved little hills.
"...and grant me a willing spirit..."
Psalm 51:12 (NIV)
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