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A Reprint of the First Thought for the Week

Dear Friends,

Today (after a 2-3 week break from sending out some thoughts) I am back at it! For those who may not have heard, I just finished 6 months of cancer treatments at the NIH, and after tests on July 24 was told that it has gone into remission. The next day we discovered Nancy’s mom had passed, with her funeral service being held last Monday. It’s been a busy time.

So today, still catching up, I thought I would send out the first “Thought for the Week” I ever sent out – way back in February of 2008! Some may remember the story, while others will not. It’s the story behind the writing of the hymn “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” by Thomas Dorsey, published in 1938. I did not reference the book I found it in. Enjoy.



The Story Behind 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 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. So, 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 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.

Yet, I was 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 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 fingers began to browse over the keys. Then something happened to me. I felt at peace. I felt as though I could reach out and touch God. I found myself playing a melody, and once into my head the words 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 the 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.”
Thomas A. Dorsey


In His Grace, Pastor Jeff




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