When I was a girl, I read all of LM
Montgomery’s books. At least twice. So many heroines in novels these days are
superficial. Their problems are
ridiculous or, at the very least, unlikely to happen to the everyday
woman. Perhaps that is the point: novels
are a form of escapism. To be able to
leave your own mundane life behind you and get lost in a lifestyle far removed
from your own definitely has its perks at times. Still, do you regard any of those “heroines”
as friends? Do you look back fondly on
them years later, thankful for the experiences that you “shared” together?
It is very rare that I do. I’ve read more than my fair share of books
throughout the course of my life, the number is somewhere in the thousands. There is little in the written word that has
stuck with me, though, that has woven itself into the fabric of my “mundane”
life. The Bible, obviously, is the
greatest and, I hope, most noticeable life-shaper, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, so often heard on
tape that I once had it nearly memorized word for word, and Anne. Anne Shirley.
She was so relatable, our circumstances so similar and yet vastly
different. Looking back—even as an
adult, a wife and mother myself now—I still count Anne Shirley among my most
bosomest of bosom friends. Why?
She was someone with whom I grew up, one whose
adventures I shared. The older I became,
the more dear she became because her character developed naturally, her entire
life literally an open book. We both struggled
with finding friends, with insecurity, with catty girls. Anne and I both loved to read, we both lived
life in a perpetual day dream, and we both went through a disastrous hair dying
experience (why did I not learn from Anne?).
Anne and Gilbert, who eventually became her husband, fought and
struggled through their youth and young adulthood to reach a point where they
were not bickering over petty things.
I laughed with Anne. I cried with Anne. I grew with Anne. She was an example in so many ways, a
positive influence that helped to shape me. Unlike so many series or books that
end with the marriage of the hero and heroine and perhaps a brief epilogue detailing
their utter joy and bliss, LM Montgomery chose to continue with Anne’s story. When Anne and Gilbert finally got over their
differences and got married, and there was no “happily ever after” ending, the
kind that gives girls unrealistic expectations for marriage, there was the
“real” story. Anne’s history is the kind
of tale that lets girls know that marriage is
joy and happiness . . . but it’s also work and heartache.
Anne loved her husband, but she wasn’t perfect;
her life wasn’t free from real trials and problems. She watched her children grow and struggle, she
saw daughters grow into women and get married, she sent sons off to war and
anxiously waited for their return. Anne
is every woman. Real, human, she
experienced nearly every emotion possible to women.
Early in her marriage, she hit a rock that
often sends couples tumbling through turmoil.
She experienced acute pain . . . the kind of tortuous pain that so many
women face at some point in their lives.
When I got to the book Anne’s
House of Dreams, I was devastated, even angry with my favorite author for
stripping Anne of Joyce, the little girl who dies shortly after birth. Why did Anne have to experience that
anguish? Why would my beloved Anne have
to endure more pain? Why did I have to
experience it with her? I get it now. I understand in a way that I wish I did not.
It’s hard to love a heroine who only has minor
mishaps. It’s difficult to relate to someone
who has not experienced real pain. After
I lost my little girl two years ago, I found a renewed kinship with Anne
Shirley Blythe. As women, we survived
the most difficult blow, pressed on after our hearts had shattered. Was Anne ever the same after losing little
Joyce? No. How could she be? Did life continue and did she embrace it to
the best of her ability? Yes. That is what counts. In my opinion, THAT is what made LM
Montgomery such an amazing, enduring success of an author—she crafted a heroine
who was capable of empathizing with women in good times and bad, a friend who
would understand.
The end of the holidays, as depressing as they
always have been, now, more than ever, serves as a reminder of what God has
done in my life. I remember the little
girl that God gave to me for just a whisper of time, I mourn her sudden loss,
and I remember the little boy with the huge grin that God gave me to help heal
my broken heart. It’s overwhelming.
God has given me much, and for that I am
thankful. This year He blessed us
abundantly, and I rejoice in His goodness.
As silly as it may sound, and perhaps only those who have ever had a
deep, emotionally connection with a fictional “person” will understand, but I
count Anne Shirley among my blessings.
Anne with an “e” has been around for most of my
life, through the good times and bad.
She was there when I was a loner with my nose constantly in a book, she
was a part of my wedding joy when I walked down the aisle to her theme, and she
was there, in the back of my mind, when my heart was at its lowest point. So yes, I admit that it may seem odd that I
count a fictional girl, one from a book not even religious, as a blessing, but
I do . . . and I can’t wait to share her with Natalie, my oldest girl who is
already turning into a bibliophile.
