When Life Steals Your Song

There is a story by Max Lucado that I first read during Bible study in college, and all these years later, I still think about it.

It’s the story of Chippie the parakeet.

Chippie was happily sitting in his cage when his owner decided to clean it with a vacuum. One distraction later, Chippie was sucked into the vacuum cleaner.

His horrified owner rescued him, but he was covered in dust. So she rushed him to the sink and held him under running water. Then, realizing the poor bird was wet and shivering, she grabbed a hair dryer and blasted him with hot air.

Sucked in. Washed up. Blown over.

A few days later, someone asked how Chippie was doing.

His owner said he didn’t sing much anymore.

He mostly just sat and stared.

I remember reading that story as a college student and laughing at the absurdity of it. But I also remember understanding the point almost immediately.

Sometimes life does that to us.

It hits us once. Before we can recover, it hits us again. And then, just when we think surely that must be enough, here comes the hair dryer.

Life is not easy.

I don’t care who you are, how successful you appear, how beautiful your family looks on social media, how strong your faith is, how much money you have or how confidently you walk into a room.

Everybody gets knocked around.

Some people are just better at hiding the bruises.

We live in a world where we are constantly seeing carefully edited versions of other people’s lives. The vacation photos. The promotions. The smiling families. The accomplishments. The perfectly staged moments.

What we don’t always see are the marriages hanging by a thread. The parent sitting beside a hospital bed. The person staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. The business owner wondering how she’s going to make payroll. The college student who feels completely lost. The veteran carrying memories he cannot shut off. The widow learning how quiet a house can become. The person fighting depression while telling everyone else, “I’m fine.”

And sometimes we don’t realize how much someone is struggling until their song is gone.

That is one of the things that concerns me most when we talk about mental health, depression and suicide.

We often expect pain to announce itself.

Sometimes it does.

Often, it doesn’t.

There isn’t always a flashing warning sign. There isn’t always a dramatic cry for help. Sometimes there is simply a person who becomes a little quieter. Stops answering texts. Doesn’t show up. Doesn’t laugh quite as easily. Loses interest in things they once loved.

Sometimes they are still showing up for work every morning.

Still taking care of their children.

Still volunteering.

Still making jokes.

Still posting pictures.

Still asking everyone else how they are doing.

And slowly, quietly, they’ve stopped singing.

I think sometimes we’re so busy trying to appear strong that we’ve forgotten there is strength in admitting life has knocked the wind out of us.

There have been seasons in my own life when I’ve felt overwhelmed, exhausted, discouraged or simply tired of taking one hit after another. I suspect most people, if they’re being truthful, could say the same.

Faith doesn’t make us immune from that.

One of the things I have come to appreciate more as I’ve gotten older is that faith isn’t the promise that difficult things won’t happen. Sometimes faith is simply what gives us something to hold onto while they are happening.

And sometimes God sends that lifeline through another person.

A phone call.

A cup of coffee.

A friend who notices.

Someone who sits beside you without trying to fix everything.

Someone who asks, “How are you?” and then sticks around long enough to hear the real answer.

We talk frequently about being kinder to one another, and the phrase has become almost cliché. But I’m not sure we fully understand how consequential kindness can be.

The person who irritates you might be terrified about a diagnosis.

The coworker who seems distracted may have spent the night caring for a parent.

The friend who keeps canceling plans may barely have the energy to get through the day.

The person who appears to have everything together may be fighting a battle you cannot see.

That doesn’t mean we excuse every behavior or carry burdens that aren’t ours to carry.

It simply means we leave room for grace.

It means we check on people.

It means we listen.

It means we take someone’s pain seriously when they trust us enough to share it.

And it means that when someone says they are struggling, our first instinct shouldn’t be to compare their suffering to someone else’s or remind them how much they have to be grateful for.

Pain isn’t a competition.

Sometimes people don’t need a solution.

They need to know they aren’t alone.

And if you’re the Chippie right now — if life has sucked you in, washed you up and blown you over — maybe you don’t feel much like singing either.

That’s okay.

You don’t have to pretend everything is fine.

Tell somebody.

Call the friend.

Talk to your pastor.

Reach out to a counselor.

Ask for help.

And if the darkness has reached the point where you’re thinking about ending your life, please tell someone immediately. In the United States, you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

There is no weakness in needing someone to help carry you through a difficult season.

Because difficult seasons are exactly that.

Seasons.

They are not the entirety of your story.

Chippie’s story has stayed with me for decades because underneath the humor is something profoundly true about being human.

Sometimes life knocks the song right out of us.

So maybe our job is to pay a little closer attention to the people around us.

Notice who’s gotten quiet.

Make the call.

Send the text.

Sit beside someone.

Give a little more grace than seems necessary.