It was only my second time attending play practice for the Middle School’s upcoming production, Anne of Green Gables. Since the announcement, I’ve been thrilled to be part of bringing to life this story that I’ve loved since I was 10. Anne is such an exciting character, and I know the movies almost by heart. I was dutifully sitting at the back of the auditorium with a spreadsheet open, entering props that I would be responsible for procuring over the next six weeks. With script in one hand and an eye on the stage to see if they made any air movements that might hint at a prop, I was struggling to get accurate notes since they were jumping around with scenes in Act 2, according to who was present that day.
That’s how we came to find ourselves suddenly near the end of the play, and as I watched Matthew open up the “air envelope,” I realized with a jolt, “I think he’s about to die.” Sure enough, a moment later the actor clutched his chest and rolled to the floor, and I discovered a lump in my throat. Being surrounded by Middle Schoolers, I quickly busied myself typing notes so that my eyes wouldn’t start leaking.
There have been some sad moments in the last month. Some close friends are carrying heavy stories, and while I count it a privilege to join in the burden-carrying, it's still sad. The news from places that matter to me aren't helping either, and I've been missing particular colleagues who departed this summer, but whose absence is just now being felt. Perhaps it's logical that the emotions were so quick to rise to the surface.
A mere 24 hours after practice, I decided to pop in the Anne of Green Gables movie and return to my childhood for a few hours. It was glorious having lines pop out of my mouth seconds before they were said on the screen, watching Anne find belonging and grow in relationships. Yet suddenly I was nearing Matthew’s death scene again, and I couldn’t say why, but I just knew I was going to cry. Not just tear up, ugly weep. I reached for the tissues, thinking to myself, “This is silly. I’ve seen this movie a hundred times, and I know how it’s going to end.” But (as I read somewhere recently) knowing the end of the story doesn’t mean you can’t cry at the sad parts.
So I did. I sobbed for two minutes until Matthew closed his eyes, Anne cradling his head, and the camera panned out for a glimpse of the pretty October scenery. I recovered quickly enough and enjoyed the rest of my evening, but I’ve been pondering since how to translate this truth to our students - that there’s value in not just skipping over the sad parts. That they don’t only hold beauty and truth of their own, but that they’re necessary to the story. In a few weeks, when our 14-year-old Matthew acts this out on stage for a watching world, will we catch a glimpse of the gospel story within?
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