On July 1, 1899, little notice was taken of a baby boy of color, born in Villa Rica, Ga., a small town some 40 miles west of Atlanta. He, one of seven brothers and sisters, was around the church most of his early life. His dad was a devout Baptist preacher, and his mother was an organist. She started young Thomas on the piano when he was 7 years old.
In his late teens, he decided to embark on a career as a blues musician, billed as Georgia Tom. This took him through the night clubs of Atlanta to the jazz houses on the south side of Chicago. Because of his heritage, he very shortly tired of that kind of life and gravitated toward Christian music.
At age 21, he joined the Pilgrim Baptist Church in Chicago where he directed choirs and wrote more than 300 songs. In a taped interview in 1977, Thomas A. Dorsey told this writer the following story, which happened 45 years earlier.
In 1932, at 32 years old, I lived with my wife, Nettie, in a small Chicago apartment. One afternoon, I had to go to St. Louis to sing at a revival. I didn’t want to leave since Nettie was in her last month of pregnancy with our first child.
But, many people were expecting me in St. Louis. So, I kissed Nettie goodbye, hurried downstairs to the car, and set off on Route 66.
Just outside the city, I realized I’d forgotten my music case. When I returned, I found Nettie sleeping peacefully. I hesitated by her bedside, feeling a strong urge to stay, but I brushed it off and quietly left home with my music.
The following night, in the sweltering St. Louis heat, the crowd kept calling me back to sing, over and over. Finally, when I sat down, a messenger boy handed me a telegram. I opened the envelope, and there, pasted on the yellow paper, were the words:
YOUR WIFE JUST DIED.
When I returned, I learned that Nettie had gone into early labor and died from childbirth complications. She had given birth to a son, but that night, he, too, passed away.
I buried Nettie and our baby boy together in the same casket. I was devastated. felt that God had done me an injustice. I didn’t want to serve Him any more or write gospel sings.
I wanted to go back to that jazz world I once knew so well.
As I sat in my dark apartment, I kept thinking back to the day I left for St. Louis. Something had urged me to stay with Nettie. Was that voice God’s? If only I had listened, I would have been with her. From that moment, I promised to listen to God more closely.
But even then, I remained lost in grief.
The following Saturday, a friend took me to a music school in our neighborhood.
The place was quiet. The late evening sun was filtering softly through the curtained windows. I sat down at the piano, letting my fingers wander over the keys.
I then suddenly felt an unexpected peace, as if I could reach out and touch God. A melody began to flow from my hands, one I’d never heard or played before. The words came to me-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 melodies, and through them, He healed my spirit. In our deepest grief, we may feel far from God, yet this is when He is closest. It is when our hearts are most open to His restoring power.
Now, I live for Him, willing and joyful, until He gently leads me home.
Kenrick Vaz 