Christ WILL show

Christ showed us what LOVE is – at Calvary!

 

He showed us what LOVE gives – at Pentecost!

 

Christ will show us how LOVE lives – in Eternity!

-eab, 6/26/10

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WHY DAD, WHY?

A father may assent to a certain belief,

(Be it ten volumes long or a half-page brief)

Daily touting its precepts to the sky.

He may claim to live by its law every day,

Say that he agrees with it, in every way,

But if children follow not–I’m tempted to ask “Why?”

 

Be his doctrine in theories austerely fiscal,

Or universally educational,

Or so pragmatic as to just “get by.”

If a son does not follow his distant sails,

If his daughter never walks his distinct trails,

It’s natural to ask, to ask a solemn, “Why, dad why?”

 

He may have convinced a friend, some fellow student,

And many more he claims are very “prudent,”

Have a million “sheep” when he comes to die.

But if the family who knew him; knew him best,

Doesn’t belong to the great flock, like the rest,

Should it be painted so wrong to voice a little why?

A creed, theory, grandiose idea unique,

If truly lived-out in dad’s life, every week,

Even by ultra quiet “Mr. Shy,”

May find a few followers among close friends

But if not one child “sees” him right when life ends,

Not one agrees with his lifelong creed – Why tell me why?

 

Did they see it “impractical,” to say the least?

Some weird life that was all fast (maybe all feast),

Or all hilarity or some wild cry.

Did they see him champion a cause long dead,

Or see him as “la cabosa” in the head?

Why did his offspring not follow dad? Do you know why?

 

The above could be written ‘bout business or money,

‘Bout facets of life; bad or “sweet as honey,”

About slow plans or deals that “really fry.”

Religion?!  If it was important to him,

If he lived it in plenty and when years were slim,

Yet not a child walked his road – it’s no sin to ask “Why?”

 

Yes, sons are free moral agents; they’re free to choose.

Yes, daughters have wills; wills to win, wills to loose.

All souls must buy the truth or buy the lie.

But if dad really lived up to what he taught,

Practiced that for which he supposedly fought,

Why didn’t son believe? “Can anyone say why?”

 

Not all sons follow farmer daddies, or do law,

Nor weld, teach, paint, nor build like him (without flaw)

Nor choose the trade of that “Grand-OLE-Guy.”

True religion is no trade nor profession,

It’s about a constant, growing relation,

Did kids see dad’s religion as unreal, is that “Why”?

 

God says, “Train up a child in the way he should go.”

Training’s not easy, it’s not “Go with the flow.”

It was attached strings, and knots, bows, and ties.

(Even lowly ball has “Three strikes and you’re out!”)

Training sees big goals beyond tuck-head or pout.

No training?!  Does that explain unexplainable “Whys?”

 

It matters not how a man may teach (even preach),

If his life did not touch his children; Reach Each!

Words/deeds must agree to solidify.

Right’s always right; though evil may appear strong,

Dads must positively, lovingly, oppose wrong.

To silence his children’s every, seriously poised “Why.”

                – eab, 7/1

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Thomas Andrew Dorsey – birth, July 1, 1899

Precious Lord, take my hand,

Lead me on, let me stand,

I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m lone.

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’m tired, I’m weak, Lord I’m worn,

Through the storm, through the night,

Lead me on to the light,

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

Thomas Andrew Dorsey was born this date, 7/1/1899, at Villa Rica, Georgia.  He was the son of Thomas Madison Dorsey, a Baptist minister, and Etta Plant Dorsey, a church organist. 

Dorsey wrote “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” (1932) a few days after losing his wife, Nettie and this newly born son.  It is a powerful plea for God to guide and thus others have identified with it.

Thomas A. Dorsey died 1/23/1993, at Chi­ca­go.

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