A Gift From Pride Rock

Tonight was going to be magical—I just knew it.

Scratch that. It already was magical.

It was Tuesday night, the only night I had actually purchased tickets for The Lion King at the Peace Center in Greenville, South Carolina. I’d already seen it six or seven times as a volunteer usher, but tonight was different.

Tonight, I was a patron.

Tonight, I would get to experience the animal parade from a theatre seat.

Tonight, I wouldn’t have to keep one eye on the crowd or the exits.

Tonight, I could lose myself completely in the glorious world unfolding onstage.

Every. Magical. Moment.

I felt like I’d downed six espressos with Mountain Dew chasers (and I don’t even drink either). I was buzzing in every pore of my being. Watching a Broadway show from a seat is a remarkably different experience than watching from the perimeter, and I was struggling to keep my feet on the ground while my heart floated to the ceiling in sheer, uncontainable joy.

Finally—finally—the lights went out and the show began.

Rafiki’s voice rang out, singing a conversation with the antelopes perched in boxes high above.

The sun rose in a glorious swath of yellow and orange.

And then—the giraffes. The giraffes! Is there anything more breathtaking than those towering silhouettes against that rising sun?

The majestic elephant marched down the aisle, close enough to touch (I wisely refrained), with her adorable baby toddling along behind her. The zebras, the cheetah, the birds. Zazu! Mufasa and Sarabi, presenting baby Simba.

Only my skin kept me from bursting with joy. Tears streamed down my face. The emotion built and built until that iconic Boom! echoed through the theatre—then sudden silence, sudden darkness, and an eruption of cheers that reminded me to breathe.

Except…tonight was different.

When the Boom hit, not all of the lights went out. Instead, the cast was left frozen in silhouette against that African sunrise: zebras, elephants, birds, Pride Rock, Mufasa, Sarabi, Rafiki, the giraffes, Zazu—all of them suspended in time.

That moment, usually so fleeting, stretched into long, beautiful minutes. I soaked in every detail. I memorized it. I imprinted it on my soul.

It wasn’t just magical. It was transcendent.

Later, I would learn a summer squall was raging outside, flooding parts of downtown, knocking out power, and even sending water seeping into the lobby and backstage. But in the audience? The magic never broke.

Only those of us who’d seen the show before realized anything unusual was happening. From our seats, it looked intentional—like a gift.

And maybe, for me, it was.

A few nights later, I chatted with some of the actors and discovered how intense it had been backstage. They confessed that during the opening, when the blackout didn’t happen, they felt foolish just standing there, frozen. But they’d been trained not to move until the cue came.

I told them the truth: it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

Every other time I’d seen The Lion King, I wanted to cling to that moment right before the lights went out, to make it last. That night, I got my wish.

And I’ll carry that gift forever.

Every seasoned theatergoer has one of those ‘this only happens once’ stories. Was it a technical glitch that turned magical? An understudy who blew you away? Share your ‘only in the theater’ moment below—I can’t wait to read them!