Good Morning Dear Friends,
Oh if only we would believe with all our heart daily
that God was God, and his mercies are new every morning.
If only we would accept his salvation, and live every day
of our lives to it's fullest purpose. If only we could share
the love of God with others, and lead them not only by
words, but by the silent sermon of our lives.
If only we could catch the fire of God within our hearts
that we might go out and bring hope to a dying world.
If only we could trust him with our burdens and walk
free in his mercy and loving care and live our lives
in that precious freedom and forgiveness, rather
than in pain and regrets and despair.
Why do we let another day go by without serving Him,
surrendering to Him, worshipping Him, clinging to Him,
and letting Him be God. What hope would fill our hearts,
how we would change how we lived, and how it would
affect everyone.. why do we neglect so great a salvation.
Why don't we take it seriously?
Nothing is more important or vital than this.
Someone may miss heaven because we missed telling them.
Only one life, will soon be past
Only what is done, for Christ will last
Love
millie
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"THE BIRTH OF 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. 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
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 sat hunched alone in that dark apartment
during those first sad days, I thought back to the afternoon I
went to St. Louis. Something had kept urging 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, once the words were 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."
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.
--Tommy Dorsey
originally published in Guideposts
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