My job in elementary education means my summers are free. Sometimes too free. So this year, my friend suggested I volunteer as an usher at our local off-Broadway theater. I watched pets for income, but that didn’t get me out and about in the community, and I could easily hide away for my entire summer.
​
Alright, alright. But the bit that sealed the deal? The theater was performing Beauty and the Beast AND Murder on the Orient Express. So I had two shows I wanted and a paraprofessional’s income. But ushers could stay and watch the entire summer season free.

So I ushered. And I experienced my first summer season. And I learned a lot about theater. But the funny thing is, what I learned there works outside the theater, too.

One: Give it a try.

The theater offered five shows this year, and I only knew two. But far be it from me to turn down a free ticket.

Except I almost did. The afternoon I ushered The Wedding Singer, I’d been dogsitting for a week and had car trouble first thing that morning. I already felt “meh” about the show, and a long nap at home was all too enticing.

But the free ticket prevailed. If I disliked the show that much, I reasoned, I could sneak out at intermission.
I didn’t sneak out at intermission. The Wedding Singer made me smile more than any other show. I laughed so hard I forgot all about the car trouble and my nap.

And I’d almost missed it. I’d almost stuck with what I knew.

Trying new things is easy when it’s free and you can sneak out at intermission. Rarely does life outside the theater work that way. But God will send opportunities our way. They might be fun things, like Wedding Singer tickets. They might be not so fun things, like car trouble along the way. Sometimes it risks embarrassment or disappointment.

But sometimes it comes with laughter. Sometimes it comes with joy. But first, I have to give it a try.

Two: Audience matters.

My first show, I smiled at the dressed-up girls at Beauty and the Beast. Then two weeks later, I was the only young person at Kiss Me Kate. Then a month later I clapped along with the dancing audience at Beautiful.

And I sat behind the theater’s high school conservatory group at The Wedding Singer.

And man, that conservatory group was the best audience.

They cheered loud and hard for the orchestra when most people just politely clapped. They laughed the hardest at the jokes. They gasped whenever a character gave a particularly good roast.

And that reaction is infectious. It was uncanny how one person would clap or dance or cheer, and soon it would ripple across the entire audience.

Who is in my real-life audience with me?

Someone who will cheer the overlooked or someone who’s content to politely clap?

Someone who will discuss the show with me afterward or someone who will scroll their phone at intermission?

Someone who will gasp and cry with the more dramatic bits or someone who you can never quite read whether they’re even enjoying it?

Someone who will laugh and find the joy, or someone who will complain about the seats and the people around them?

And what audience am I for those around me?

Three: It’s okay to watch the show alone.

The very first show I ushered was Beauty and the Beast. I sat with the usher who trained me for the first half, but at intermission, she announced that she had an appointment.

That left me alone in an empty row.

I’d attended this theater several times before, but a friend or family member always came with me.

Being alone was strangely refreshing.

Don’t get me wrong—there’s something beautiful and unifying at sharing a glance or laughing at the same jokes or reacting to a climatic moment together. I definitely wouldn’t want to attend every show alone.

But this time, I laughed at the parts I found funny without wondering if anyone else caught the humor. Nothing and no one else tugged at my attention. I immersed myself in the lights and the spectacles and the characters.

Sure, you need a good audience. But I also don’t have to be afraid to watch the show alone sometimes. Alone doesn’t mean lonely. Sometimes God gives us that space so we can learn things about ourselves and immerse ourselves in what God has done and what He’s doing. And then we can take the next show, the next thing, and share it with our audience.  

Four: Love what you love.

Beauty and the Beast was the only show I attended alone. But I made up my mind. No matter who I sat with, I would enjoy the show my way. I’d laugh at the jokes I found funny. I’d cheer for the characters I loved. I’d clap along with the songs if I felt so inclined. I wouldn’t get embarrassed if I cried. And I’d stand at the end even if no one else did.

I got to just be myself in a crowd of people who also got to just be themselves. And we lost ourselves in a story for three hours.

And something about being ourselves also unified us.

God created me uniquely and specifically. He created every other person in that audience uniquely and specifically. And far beyond a show, I have a unique perspective on the world outside the theater.

I studied Ecclesiastes over the summer, and sometimes that book is a downer. But scattered throughout it are these passages that remind me that God gives all the good things we experience, and that enjoying those good gifts is a beautiful thing.

I can try new things. I can surround myself with a good audience. I can even enjoy time alone. But a show only has as much value as you give it. Life only has as much value as I put into it. Let yourself experience the show your way, the way only you can, the way He designed you.  

Do you have a favorite play or musical? Have you seen any of the ones I mentioned? Share your adventures in the comments below!

Yes, I am in my twenties.

Yes, I live twenty minutes from a professional theater.

Yes, I just went to see my first live professional musical earlier this month.

See, when I was younger, I thought I didn’t like musicals. What was the point of interrupting a story with some random songs? Just tell the story all the way through, thank you very much.

However, as I got older and began developing my own unique tastes, a friend encouraged me to try a couple musicals. And shock of all shocks, I really liked them. Turned out musicals were just like everything else—there were ones I absolutely hated and ones that I absolutely adored.

That was how I wound up seeing Cinderella at our local theater this summer.

It was unlike anything I had ever been to before. I’d been to concerts, one of them at this same theater. I’d been to high school plays and musicals. I’d watched filmed musicals.

But this was different.

As soon as I got home, I jotted down some of my noticings, mainly so my brain would quiet down and let me sleep. Why not explore some of those things here?

After all, musicals are a form of art, just like writing.

Just like life.

The musical was different, but better.

I’d listened to the 2013 Broadway Cinderella recording before attending the show and filled in the gaps between the songs with how I thought it might go.

Very little of the show matched what I had imagined—and am I ever glad it didn’t. The story flowed in a way that it couldn’t have had I forced all my ideas and presuppositions on it.

Not only was the story different, but the show itself was different. It differed from other versions of the story, other versions of the show, even other actors’ portrayals.

For instance, I honestly thought the live Topher’s voice was better (but it could just be that the soundtrack version was also the voice of Hans from Frozen . . .). I could understand what Marie was saying in There’s Music in You (vibratto makes it hard sometimes). Each character was nuanced, unique.

The actors and actresses took a show, a story, and made it their own.

Different doesn’t necessarily mean wrong, or bad, or a disaster. In fact, different is often the best something can ever be.

I was included.

Since the theater I attended is circular, the story was literally happening around me. No seat was a bad seat, I could always see what was happening on the stage. Sometimes I had a unique perspective that someone across the stage from me didn’t have, and vice versa. A few rows ahead of us, dancers whirled, and a few seats away from us, actors and actresses entered and exited in the aisles. (The Fairy Godmother walked right past me.)

Even as lovely romantic scenes played out before me, I was so in the story and the mindset of it all that I was scanning the entrances and exits and glancing over my shoulder for Sebastian and Madame lurking about.

It was something beautiful and glorious to fit so perfectly into a story, like it was written with me in mind and wouldn’t have been the same without me.

Even though we know life is the same way, sometimes it gets lonely, and we need the reminder.

Mistakes were the most beautiful thing.

One of my favorite small moments was during Ella’s transformation.

It was seamless. Almost.

Except for a snag in the back of Ella’s dress that hitched the fabric in a weird way. A snag Ella was oblivious to.

The entire audience waited and watched. The fox and raccoon footmen behind Ella debated via facial expressions just how far their duties extended.

And then the Fairy Godmother turned Ella around and smoothed out her dress. The gesture fit her character, the story so well, so seamlessly. It was a simple, yet heartwarming moment.

One we wouldn’t have seen if a mistake hadn’t been made first.

The energy!!!

My favorite moments were the villagers’ dance in The Prince is Giving a Ball and the waltz at the ball. When the ensemble gets in on the action, whirling and twirling and turning cartwheels all at once, the choreography, how all the diverse and moving parts work together, amazes me.

But something more, you can feel the energy they’re passing back and forth to each other. And somewhere inside those acts, they pass that energy to you and allow you to join in, even if you’re in a seat and they’re on a stage.

Of course, it also may have helped that I attended with a friend, too. :)

That energy is life, isn’t it? We’re all part of something so big and wonderful, and there come those moments where we’re right where we’re meant to be, playing our part and working alongside others who are doing the same.

The ache in my throat.

At one point in Loneliness of Evening, Ella and Topher’s voices blended so perfectly that against my will, my breath caught. Goosebumps raised on my arm. An ache rose in my throat. And I couldn’t help but look up, raise my chin a little bit.

It’s the only way I can describe it. Such a raw, perfect moment that reminded me of all that was true and all I could be.

The hardest part of attending this musical was waking up the next morning to a world that had clearly not just attended their first musical. The excitement inside me dimmed a bit as I returned to the real world with all the usual things to do.

But why should I let the world dim that? They don’t get to make that call.

In a way, I had my own Cinderella moment. The world may be rough. But there’s real-life magic, too. Sometimes a musical is the best way to remember that.

What about you? What are some of your favorite musicals? Share your adventures in the comments below!