The Birth of The Hymn “Precious Lord” — Alan Reynolds

There is a story about the Gospel song,  "Precious Lord," which may be a help and comfort for any who are finding these opening days of 2014 hard and difficult.

It was written, words and music, by Thomas A. Dorsey. Unfortunately, many have mistaken the Thomas A. Dorsey, the Gospel Jazz musician of the 1920's and 1930's, with Tommy Dorsey, the swing band leader of the 1930's and 1940's.
 

Here is the true story: 
 

Thomas A. Dorsey, who composed the words and music to “Precious Lord, take my hand,” was a piano-playing blues musician in the Chicago area who “got religion.” 

At this time, music in the black church tended to imitate white choirs in white churches. Dorsey claimed “the blues,” for the black church. “Blues” was that combination of white-American and black-African music which we would call “jazz.” But distinct from secular jazz, Dorsey helped in the development of what we might call Gospel Jazz. He became a leader in the music of the black church, his influence lasting from the 1920’s even to the present time, from Ethel Waters to Mahalia Jackson. Most black secular artists, such as Diana Ross, Aretha Franklin, or even Ray Charles, got their start in the worship music of the black church.
 

Let Dorsey himself tell the story of “Precious Lord”:

Back in 1932, I was 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 goodbye, 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. But still I was lost in grief. Everyone was kind to me, especially one friend. The following Saturday evening he took me up to Maloney'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 in 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.
 

Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on,
Let me stand
I'm 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

When my way grows drear precious Lord linger near
When my life is almost gone
Hear my cry,
Hear my call
Hold my hand lest I fall,
Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home

When the darkness appears and the night draws near
And the day is past and gone
At the river I stand
Guide my feet,
Hold my hand
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home

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

 

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(Posting: Peter, for Alan.)

 

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A Devoted Couple (by Peter Black)

They were our neighbours. My wife and I used to see them sitting together most days. Sometimes we’d hear them chatting quietly back and forth, and other times they’d remain side by side for long periods, not making a sound. I guess they were comfortable and content in each other’s company—obviously a devoted couple. 

The time came when they had a couple of kids. My, how they cared for them! Great parents they were, both sharing the responsibility. And work? Oh yes, they were workers alright, providing for the needs of their young family, preparing meals and feeding the little guys, and yet they arranged their schedules so that there was always one parent at home with them.

As with many of us who have raised a family, it  seemed no time at all before the youngsters began flexing wings independence. And then to our surprise, they were soon up and gone. With the freedom their empty nest gave them, the parents took occasional trips away, but it was never too long before they’d be back, enjoying each other’s company and their surroundings as usual.

And then, one day there was just one partner, sitting alone.
Alone one day, alone the next and the next . . . 

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We missed those neighbours, a pair of mourning doves. I’m sure that one had fallen victim to a neighbourhood cat or racoon, or met with some fate or other. Whether the remaining bird was the male or female, I’m not certain. They’d been good company for us. I liked the simple musicality of their gentle mating call and soft cooing communication, which I fancied was lovey-dovey sweet nothings.

Many birds spend time around our back yard, but I think the lifelong monogamous relationship of doves is special. Their joint devotion to caring for their young mirrors that of committed, loving human couples.

I’m sure the male was our surviving dove. Day after day he appeared anxious and unsettled, shuffling restlessly along his usual perch. He’d launch himself into the air, circle a short distance, land on the old maple for several seconds, then take off and return to his perch. Shortly after, he’d go through a similar routine all over again.

I reckon he didn’t know what to do; he was mourning, lost without his mate. Grieving in silence. He didn’t make any calls or even soft cooing sounds. I felt sorry for him and reflected how some people who, having lost their life-partner, struggle with loneliness, many of them (especially men) grieving in silence—alone.

I’ve observed—and clinical studies have shown—that surviving partners who have several good connections fare better, whether family or caring friends. Although they may deeply miss their loved one and mourn, and might reminisce and talk about former good times, yet are less likely to remain stuck there.

Sharing and friendship helps them in time to move from mourning into a grieving that allows them to grow and look forward. How precious it is to have caring people in our lives, especially at a time of loss; let us not push them away in our time of grief.

Our lonely dove disappeared for a few days. And then, one morning I heard it again—that familiar soft cooing. There by his side on the old perch was a new partner. He was ready and had reached out, and another companion came alongside. He’s moving on.

Loving devotion raises my gaze . . . Heavenward.

Yours too?

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Peter A. Black is a freelance writer in Southwestern Ontario, and is author of “Parables from the Pond” – a children's / family book (mildly educational, inspirational in orientation, character reinforcing).

(Finalist -- Word Alive Press ISBN 1897373-21-X)

His inspirational column, P-Pep! appears weekly in The Guide-Advocate. His articles have appeared in 50 Plus Contact and testimony, and several newspapers in Ontario.
Peter's current book project comprises a collection of 52 column articles.
The post above has been adapted from P-Pep! column article, published August 8, 2013.

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