***It has been a nice weekend. Yesterday there were a ton of yard sales to visit (yes, I'm that easy to please), and Mom & I had a great morning shopping. Elder-Beerman has perpetual sales, so of course we went there and picked up some bargains. She loves that store. My aunt always asks us to bring her some tomatoes from the Amish store, so after our Amish store run we visited with her for a while. I spent the afternoon working, then Mark & I went looking at cars yet again. We have narrowed our search to the Honda CRV, the GMC Terrain, and the Chevrolet Equinox. They're all starting to run together now, I'm at the point where I told Mark to just pick one, & I'll be happy with it. Today we get to see Emily & Peter & Johnathan! After church Mark's family & us (we? need to look that up) are going to meet them at the Cheesecake Factory at The Green to celebrate Emily's birthday. Hard to believe she's 29, where did the years go?? It just so happens that the Cheesecake Factory is right across the street from a huge bookstore. Since I only have about 20 books in line to read, I'll obviously have to get a couple more.
Birth of a Song
A TRUE Story -- by Thomas A. Dorsey
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, 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 Frye, who seemed to know what I needed. On the
following Saturday evening he took me up to Madam 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 feel as though I
could reach out and touch God. I found myself playing a melody, one I'd
never heard or played before, and the words 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.
***In my day, we didn't have self-esteem, we had self-respect, and no more of it than we had earned. ~Jane Haddam