In the tiny country church where I spent most of the first 22 years of my life, where I found the Lord at the age of 11, where without fail I had the leading part in every Christmas pageant and where my daddy laid down the law in more ways than one, we sang hymns from a brown songbook and a green one, both filled with the haunting melodies that have penetrated the Appalachians for many decades. I can close my eyes and still hear the mournful ballads such as “Angel Band” or “Just As I Am.” With my eyes closed or open, I can see the teary-edged look in Daddy’s green eyes as he sat on the front pew and sang, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand,” a heart-wrenching song written by Thomas Dorsey, a black blues singer from Atlanta, who wrote it after suffering the loss of his wife and son during childbirth.