Backstage at the Ryman Auditorium. I am a fish out of water. What am I doing here?

It is the Gatlin Brothers 70th anniversary concert, and every Nashville A-list celebrity you can think of is here. I am supposed to do a song with everyone at the end. Larry Gatlin told me to bring my banjo.

But I’m experiencing a bad case of “tiny banjo syndrome” right now. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to act around famous people.

I just had a conversation with Bill Gaither, for example, in which the first words I muttered were, “Did you know that you’re Bill Gaither?”

The 89-year-old man whose name I have only seen in hymnals just smiled his perfect chompers at me and touched my shoulder. He said, “Thanks for clearing that up.”

For most of the night, I am backstage, waiting to go on. I watch most of the show with the Oak Ridge Boys. We all stand in the wings watching guys like Vince Gill sing. The Gatlin brothers never sounded so tight.

Now and then, I look into the audience. I’m looking for my wife. I am pretty sure I see Amy Grant sitting a few seats away from my beloved.

And I feel like I am glowing. But I also feel out of place. Like the guy who fell into the beer keg and drowned, but had to crawl out twice to pee first.

At some point, I wander back into the men’s dressing room to watch the show on monitors. I am alone in the room with empty guitar cases, all bearing the inscriptions of names I’ve only ever heard on the radio.

And I am thinking about the little boy I used to be. The kid who dropped out of school after his dad died. The flunky who hung drywall. The fool who finally received his high-school equivalency at 30-something.

What am I doing here?

And that’s when I find you.

Almost like you are waiting for me.

Your portrait is on the wall. And you are smiling down at me.

You nearly take my breath away—if you will permit me to use such clichés. Because your portrait is almost like a private gift from God.

Namely, because nobody in this theater could possibly know what a personal hero you are to me. Nobody could possibly understand how much your very photograph means to me tonight.

You see, I’ve read all your books. I’ve read all your essays. In grade school, when our English teacher asked us to write about our all-time hero, I wrote about you.

In college, I did a research paper on your life. I had to read it before class. And I broke down when I read it.

I think you are one of the most brilliant people who ever lived. I think you were beautiful. I think you were a gift to the human race. I’ve dreamed of the day I get to finally meet you in heaven. And here you are. With me.

We’re both from Alabama. You were from Tuscumbia, I’m from Birmingham. We both adore hot dogs. We both love animals. You were born in 1880. I was born 100 years later, in December.

Your autograph is on the massive portrait. Beneath the glass.

I touch the glass. Because these are your words. Yours.

And I know how long these words must’ve taken you to write. I know how hard you worked learning to write clearly, and how many hours you sweated and toiled, learning to pen a legible alphabet with a ruler.

And I begin to cry a little, touching your portrait because I’ve never seen your actual autograph. I cry because I love you. And I am sure if you ever met me, you would love me, too.

You performed here in 1913. You delivered a lecture. It was the first sold out event the Ryman ever knew. You answered questions from the audience through your interpreter. You brought the house down.

Suddenly, it’s time to go on. A stage hand enters the dressing room and says, “Let’s go, it’s time, Mister Dietrich.”

He sees me touching the portrait and says confusedly:

“Is that Helen Keller?”

I smile. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” he says. “I wonder why her picture is here.”

“Because,” I say. “She has a friend who works in mysterious ways.”