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 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.

             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


           
             "But those who hope in the LORD
             will renew their strength. They will soar
             on wings like eagles; they will run and
              not grow weary, they will walk and not
              be faint" (Isaiah 40:31).
              (¨`·.·´¨)
                   `·.(¨`·.·´¨)

                   ¸...¸ __/ /\____ ____
                ,·´º o`·,/__/ _/\_ //____/\
                     ```)¨(´´´ | | | | | | | || |l±±±± |
                 ¸,.-·²°´ ¸,.-·~·~·-.,¸ `°²·-. :º°
             A smile is a light in the window
             of the soul indicating that the
             heart is home