I married a music man.

Mark plays bass, which I have been schooled multiple times, is NOT a guitar, despite looking exactly like one.

Before we met, just three years ago, I was like a boat without a rudder or oars. I was alone, retired, and trying to figure out what to do with the waning years of my life.

I walked a lot, prayed, and listened to podcasts and music. I noticed that almost every song was about love. I was cynical. Maybe love was just puppy love, or early-stage lust that never worked out. But so many songs with the same message! Was everybody that deceived? Or could love, the kind songwriters write about and singers sing about, be possible?

I grew up liking Elton John’s music. I had a stack of albums, some Elton (remember jumping to make the record skip a scratch?), then 8-track tapes (threw out my last Donny Osmond one last week), cassettes (hopelessly tangled), CDs (with plastic cases that broke immediately).

I memorized the lyrics of Bernie Taupin, Elton’s main songwriter, since I was a pre-teen. I knew Elton wasn’t a realistic possibility (obviously), but the idea of marrying a music man was romantic to a young girl’s heart. I was in love with the idea of experiencing the kind of love found in his music.

It took a few decades to find it.

Mark sometimes plays at church. He dresses like Johnny Cash in dark clothing and prefers to play from the back of the stage, behind the singers and guitar players. Still, he is a big guy with a head of white hair, and he is hard to miss. His bass (NOT a guitar) sounds very growly, and he adds unusual sounds like ghost notes or thumps.

After the performance, other musicians approached him, saying they had recognized the bass player before even seeing him on stage. He is talented. He can’t hide even though he tries.

Musicians speak in a strange language filled with terms like chord progressions, number system, amp, and tone. They are alien creatures drawn to their own kind and communicating as if they’ve known each other for years.

The stage is chaotic. Crisscrossing electrical cords cover most parts of the floor, with various foot switches in front of microphone stands, along with an array of guitars (or bass, which is NOT a guitar), drums, keyboards, and the occasional violin. Scattered pages of sheet music, song lists fluttering to the floor, and thick, messy notebooks add to the clutter. Several amplifiers and speakers are present, along with a huge drum kit behind a thick plastic wall, ensuring only the drummer is guaranteed to go deaf. The stage is dark, the music loud, and the musicians frequently make eye contact, shake their heads, nod, and eye-roll. It is loosely controlled chaos.

The song list is sent out the week before. Mark practices upstairs in his Music Room, which is aptly named because it has little space for anything but his music gadgets.

The other day, I walked in and he was wearing a rubber headband with thick square glasses attached, while he was bent over poking at a flat box that looked like the inside of an old transistor radio.

Shaking my head, I said nothing, stepped back, closed the door, and quickly prayed that he wasn’t trying to contact his home planet.

All week, I hear ka-chunk, chunk chunk, and mer—owww and thumpa, thumpa coming from upstairs, along with a woman’s recorded voice saying, “next verse,” “bridge,” and “chorus,” and a drive-me-crazy clicking sound.

I sometimes hear Mark sigh in frustration, and soon after, he plays the song “Peg” by Steely Dan. Repeatedly. Over and over. Never-ending. Did I mention he plays it a lot?

The Good Lord knew what He was doing, giving Mark a wife who loves music, but is hard of hearing. I can take those hearing aids out. Keeps me sane. Kinda.

Some Monday nights, Mark volunteers at Celebrate Recovery. It is a different kind of service from a typical Sunday morning – very intense and emotional. It was started in 1991 by Saddleback Church in California and has thousands of chapters around the world.

Our church describes Celebrate Recovery as ‘a Christ-centered recovery ministry for all of life’s hurts, habits, and hangups.’ It’s open to everyone, not just those who admit they have issues, but anyone looking for a judgment-free community.

But it’s more than that. It’s… different.

For most of my life, I was a spiritual CEO, attending church only on Christmas and Easter, if at all. After I got saved, meaning I accepted Jesus as my Savior, I was involved with church sporadically, with many weeks and years in between. I had traded my CEO status for Lone Wolf Christian, which didn’t work well.

Mark grew up attending church regularly; if the doors were open, his family was there: Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday service, and weekly practice with the worship team. As a teenager, he traveled with a Christian music band in a large bus. Thankfully, he decided that life on the road wasn’t for him.

Fast forward a few decades, we met and started attending his church, then mine. Before we married, I tended to go when it was convenient—if my hair looked okay, I found something to wear that didn’t need ironing or Spanx, the weather wasn’t too cold, hot, or rainy, or it wasn’t National Potato Week. It was hard to shake the Lone Wolf Christian habit.

One Sunday, I hesitated again, and Mark told me he was going to church even if I didn’t go. I thought about all the single women at church looking for a tall, handsome man with a head of white hair. I quickly got up and went. The Lord truly works in mysterious ways. And I’m pretty sure He laughs a lot at me.

I’m not a hand-raiser, or even an open-palm, waist-high person on Sundays. I do clap (not in rhythm, according to my husband), and occasionally make a sound (off-key or with a persistent throat frog) instead of mouthing the words. In my defense, I am silently communing with God (mostly, unless I lose my focus and think about lunch).

I ain’t perfect, just forgiven, heh heh.

I don’t move much other than a slight swaying motion during worship. I fear I look like Elaine from Seinfeld dancing and could injure those around me. This thought haunts me every Sunday. I tell myself I’m dancing inside.

Most people around me are doing the same. Collectively, we are… awkward. But I believe we all do love God. We’re just a little shy. Or sleepy. I admit for me, I am afraid of being different. Or…maybe kinda prideful.

Celebrate Recovery people, or as they loudly and often shout: ‘Ceeee..RRRRRRRR…!!!!’, are not any of those things. When Mark is on stage and I am alone in the audience, I don’t wave my hands, jump up and down, or sing, off-key or not, and certainly don’t dance. I am the Lone Wolf, Sunday Morning Poster Child.

There is a song written and performed by Stephen Curtis Chapman a while back called “Live Out Loud.”

“Wake the neighbors, get the word out

Come on… crank up the music… climb a mountain and shout

This is life we’ve been given meant to be lived out

So la la la la live out loud, yeah

Live out loud.”

The first time I attended CR, I felt out of place. Many of the people around me looked like folks I’d avoid crossing the street for. There were plenty of faded tattoos and eyes that had seen too much in too few years.

I placed my purse under my chair instead of on the seat beside me. I didn’t make eye contact.

There was an altar call asking people to come pray, but it wasn’t really needed. For most of the service, the altar was standing room only, full of people kneeling and praying, with others waiting behind them for their turn. Grown men were hugging each other, parents kneeling and crying with their children, and small groups formed for those who wanted to pray for salvation.

People get real here and share testimonies of raw pain and sweet, sweet redemption. If you don’t shed a tear here, you are severely dehydrated.

“Now think about this… if we really have been given

The gift of a life that will never end

And if we have been filled with living hope we’re gonna overflow

And if God’s love is burning in our hearts we’re gonna glow

There’s just no way to keep it in”

I envy their courage to be different, out loud. I’m working on it.

Mark told me before the musicians went on stage that night, the worship leader said:

“Let’s go Jam for the Lamb!”

And they did.

Northway Church, Zebulon Road, Macon, GA. Monday’s at 7PM. Or check out services in your area at celebraterecovery.com. You are invited!

And if I’m dancing like Elaine, don’t YouTube me, OK?

2 Samuel 6:14: “And David danced before the Lord with all his might…”

And remember, God did NOT forget them, and He didn’t forget you either.