People Who Lead Us to Our Soul’s Home Part 5
September 26, 2026
Many years ago, Lark and I were sailing with friends near Bequia, a small island in the southern Caribbean. Lark and the others had returned to our sailboat anchored in the bay, but I chose to remain behind in the little town of Port Elizabeth for the afternoon, until we set sail. The surroundings were so beautiful that I wanted to linger a while longer.
I was enchanted by the relaxed life on the island and in Port Elizabeth in particular with its draping bougainvillea, and Royal Poinciana trees with their profuse red blooms as its backdrop. There were people on their cottage porches laughing and telling stories, and people on the ends of their piers with their feet dangling into the tranquil bay. Small fishing boats in the harbor were bringing fresh fish and lobsters to the little restaurants in the quaint town square. At one end of the square lay the sparkling bay where a monument marked the spot where slaves were sold. At the other end stood a church built of native stone, with a simple steeple. I stood there listening to the vibrant music pouring from every open window of the chapel. Unable to resist, I walked to the church and stepped inside to get a glimpse of the worship.
The entire congregation was singing. The voices were so powerful and beautiful that I could not bring myself to leave. The church was packed, but I managed to squeeze into one of the few remaining spaces. Several people looked at me with understandable curiosity. Their raised eyebrows told me that I was an unexpected presence among them. Then I realized why: without knowing it, I had entered the funeral service of a beloved island resident.
A granddaughter rose and delivered a tender eulogy for the grandmother she had just lost. Her words carried the unmistakable sorrow of someone saying goodbye to a person who had helped shape her life.
At the conclusion of the service, we all stood. Six young men lifted the draped casket and slowly carried it down the center aisle, followed by the grieving family. As they passed, the congregation began singing Thomas A. Dorsey’s beloved hymn, Take My Hand, Precious Lord.
They did not sing timidly. They sang from the depths of themselves—with grief, faith, longing, and hope. Their voices sang for God to take the hand of the weary, the tired, and the worn to guide them through darkness and storm and lead them safely home.
In the middle of a carefree vacation, I had unexpectedly found myself on an island not only of relaxed beauty, but also the realities of life and death.
A short time later, as the tender carried me back across the bay to our sailboat, the church’s music remained within me. I was returning to a vacation, but I knew that sooner or later I, too, would return to the realities from which no human life is exempt. Life and happiness would be waiting for me—but so would sorrow, weariness, uncertainty, and death.
I carried the hymn’s prayer home with me: “Precious Lord, take my hand…lead me home.”
In the years that followed, there would be times when I, too, felt tired, weak, and worn. There would be storms I could not avoid and nights through which I could not find my own way. In those hours, I would remember the people of that little stone church—people I never knew, yet people whose faith became part of my own.
Their voices have gone with me through many dark passages. Without ever knowing my name, they helped lead me home, time and time again.
Spiritual Practice
Look up the words of Rev. Dorsey’s 1932 hymn. Read the story of what happened to him and how the hymn came about. What emotions might come from your heart?
Inquiry
How has a group’s collective faith, emotion, and energy lead you to your own inner home?
Prayer
Dear God,
For that hallowed time alone, when I was anything but alone, I am so thankful.
Amen
