It was October 14, 1987. Radio stations were blaring Michael Jackson and Guns N’ Roses, teenaged girls were flaunting back-to-school perms, and parents were going to work and paying off mortgages, blissfully unaware that in just a few days the stock market would crash. This particular date, significant to most of the world only for its proximity to black Monday, marked the day that the McClure family’s life would change forever. While playing in her aunt’s back yard, 18-month-old Jessica McClure, also known as baby Jessica, accidentally fell into a well. The hole was 22 feet deep and unusually narrow, making rescue efforts exceptionally challenging.
Over the next 56 hours, time slowed to an agonizing crawl as the family waited for a sign, a single glimmer of hope. When rescuers were finally able to come close enough to communicate with baby Jessica, the first thing they heard was singing. After falling and being trapped in a completely dark cold well for two full days, she was singing Winnie the Poo in her soft sweet voice. Miraculously, she ended up surviving and making a nearly full recovery.
This story highlights something important, both about music and human beings. People are intrinsically musical. No one gave baby Jessica music lessons or trained her to sing if she was in an emergency. Before she even fully had the ability to talk, Jessica somehow knew that music was her most valuable resource in that moment. This toddler landed on a truth that countless people have discovered over the centuries: music has a beautiful potential to help carry us through the dark.
My two beautiful daughters frequently remind me how music can instantly reframe a situation. Many times this past winter, I felt like a headless chicken when trying to bundle the girls up to go outside. After spending far too much time trying to get a wiggly preschooler into a snowsuit and mittens, I would turn and see my toddler leaving a salty trail of goldfish crackers throughout the house. In the three minutes it took to me clean up the mess, my preschooler had taken off her snowsuit and hid her mittens in the Tupperware drawer. This drama played out in many variations over the winter months. However, there were times I was able to get out of headless chicken mode for long enough to create a song. To be clear, it was not Grammy material. In fact, I often plagiarized a tune like The Wheels on the Bus and improvised lyrics like “stomp your little feet into your boots.” Somehow, my horrendous song would often transform a chore into a game and the girls were all bundled up before they even realized what happened.
Music has transformed many dark and challenging moments throughout history, and a multitude of songs have endured as lasting testaments. African American Spirituals like Wade in the Water arose out of the terrible hardships of slavery. These songs wove their way through days of backbreaking work in the blazing sun and sleepless nights in subhuman conditions. They brought purpose, hope and even joy to unimaginable struggle. The bloody conflict between the German and French armies during the Western front battle of 1914 briefly shifted into a picture of peace and unity when the soldiers joined to sing Silent Night together on Christmas Eve. During World War 2, countless weary, frightened and lonely hearts absorbed courage and hope from Vera Lynn’s sweet voice crooning We’ll Meet Again.
Music also creates a medium for connection in even the most secluded places. For years I worked as a music therapist in dementia care. As I spent many hours with dear people coming to terms with this difficult diagnosis, I began to realize there was often many types of grieving involved. Loss of memory, independence, identity, just to name a few. But very often, the most poignant grief seemed to come from the loss of human connection. We connect to people around us through our sense of self and our shared memories. When dementia strips these things away, individuals sometimes lose the ability to connect, even to their own spouses and children. I never appreciated the power of a simple song until I witnessed the way You are My Sunshine could transform a dementia unit. For a beautiful two minutes, a group of permanent strangers would connect by singing, dancing, and laughing. Sometimes they would even recall memories of hearing their parents sing the song during the war or lulling their own babies to sleep.
Throughout history, music has helped create connection in some of the most physically, emotionally and spiritually isolating environments. In his lament psalms, David often expresses a profound sense of loneliness. He does not hold back, penning lines like: “How long, oh Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1) “Do not be far from me, for no one is here and there is none to help.” (Psalm 22:11) The process of pouring out his heart through song always ultimately led David to a place of worship and connection with God. The endings of these Psalms radiate with hope: “But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise for he has been good to me” (Psalm 13:5-6). “He has not despised or scorned the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help” (Psalm 22:24).
Children like baby Jessica remind us that music is one of the most powerful things we can carry into the dark. As a therapist, I am regularly inspired by the way children and teenagers instinctively use music in hard times. Young children make up original songs about lost loved ones. Teenagers show me multiple Spotify playlists they have created to get through exams, breakups, and identity struggles. As adults, we can lose this connection to music. Perhaps it takes special intentionality to not merely become a passive listener in an individualistic culture that portrays a small percentage of people as musical experts. Active involvement in music does not need to look like singing on a stage. It could be dedicating an hour to deeply listening to a meaningful album from front to back. It could be penning song lyrics that will never ever see the light of day. Or it could be joining a group of people for a jam session or worship night. Although we may have different ways of engaging, baby Jessica proves that we were all created to be nightingales.
Leave a Reply