I arrive at the Grand Ole Opry with my guitar case in hand. Sound check is in an hour. I am parked beside a tour bus in the parking lot that is approximately the size of a rural school district.

The bus is rumbling. I have no idea which famous person is inside. The windows are tinted with roofing tar. A bodyguard stands before the bus. This man wears a stern look on his face which suggests he either suffers from life-threatening constipation, or he enjoys it.

A guard leads me past metal detectors before entering the building. In the backstage lobby, a ginormous portrait of Minnie Pearl hangs. And that’s when it starts to sink in.

You are at the Opry.

You are remembering when your mother told you, a long time ago, that God had a great sense of humor. In fact, he was the one who invented comedy. And he invented it so life, even when it was full of sorrow and soreness, would still be interesting.

I think I’m starting to understand this.

My backstage liaison is an older woman named Lemonade. She wears a headset microphone, and leads me through a labyrinth of halls.

“Here is your dressing room, Mister Dietrich,” says Lemonade.

“Mister Dietrich has been dead for 30 years,” I say. “My name is Sean.”

“Is there anything else you need? Sean?”

“No, thank you.”

“Really? Usually performers have a long list of specific needs. You don’t need anything?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

“Certainly.”

“Can I get my picture made with you?”

Soundcheck is surreal. You walk out there, on stage, into an empty arena and it starts to settle in your brain. You’re at the Grand Ole Opry. You.

A circular section of wood lies centerstage, a WSM microphone perched before it. The wooden circle consists of chewed up floorboards, scuffed by one century of boots and high heels. Roy Rogers. Hank Senior. Bob Wills. All the greats stood on this wood.

I tune my guitar. I play “Hey Good Lookin’,” a song that debuted on this section of wood the same year my mother was born. My voice is amplified by a 729-million-dollar sound system, and suddenly I need to change my trousers.

I’m back in my dressing room now. Performers in flashy clothes are everywhere. There is so much hairspray in the air, if you were to light a match, Opryland would become a mile-wide crater.

I sit before my dressing room mirror, outlined by little lightbulbs. I am eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which I made. I am drinking Milo’s, which I bought from Publix.

And I’m wondering who has looked into this mirror before me. They told me this was Dolly Parton’s dressing room once. My cups runneth over.

I get dressed. The show starts. I hear music out front. The roar of a crowd. It sounds like a National Championship out there. I think I’m going to puke.

Lemonade knocks on my dressing room door. “It’s time.”

I am walking down the hallway now. Butterflies galore. My wife is beside me, holding my hand. Guys in headsets are running around. Stagehands are coiling cables.

And the announcer is about to say my name.

The band will begin to play.

And in this moment, I will no longer be thinking about the Opry anymore. I won’t be thinking about Hank Senior, or the crowd, or anything.

I will be out of my body.

I will be thinking about the first piano my mother bought me. She couldn’t afford it, she was a widowed waitress who knew her son loved music.

I’ll be thinking about the day of my father’s funeral. I was a boy, I broke down sobbing, and had to be escorted out of the sanctuary.

I’ll be thinking about how I dropped out of school at age 13, and didn’t return until I was a grown man. I’m thinking about how my sister was unable to read until age 20. I am thinking about the FEMA camper trailer my mother lived in.

I’ll be thinking about how, on my very first date with my wife, she asked about my ancestry. I laughed and told her I was sorry white trash.

I’ll be thinking about how the last person on planet earth who should be standing in this circle is me. And yet, here I am. I am at the Opry.

And I’ll finally realize my mother was right.