If you read this blog regularly, you may remember I mentioned we attended a family retreat earlier this year. What I didn’t share then was the memorable—and mortifying—performance Mr N and I put on during that weekend.
The retreat was unlike anything we’d experienced since we came to America. We packed up and drove two hours to a neighboring state, Wisconsin, where the retreat center sits tucked in an actual forest. After winding through the woods we arrived at a rugged building that felt warm and welcoming inside.
Our family pastor showed us to our room, and we settled in before joining other Jesus-loving families for dinner at 6 p.m. The retreat was full of family chapel times, connection with other families and plenty of good food. It was relaxed and joyful—but those parts aren’t the reason for this story.
On day two we were told there would be a “Talent Night.” I expected to sit back, watch others and enjoy the show. Participants signed up by writing their names and the talent they wanted to present. It took me back to my campus fellowship days when we’d jump on stage and perform all kinds of things—once I even tried rap (that’s a whole other story).
I didn’t plan to perform, but the host of the evening made an announcement I couldn’t resist. She said, “If you know you are SUPER TALENTED! but you didn’t write your name on the list of performers there’s still a chance for you to write your name.” Those words hit me like a trigger. Suddenly I remembered how I used to make people laugh on stage and thought maybe I could recreate one of my old sketches.
To make matters worse, a chubby man performed a hilarious dance that had everyone in stitches, which made the atmosphere feel safe for silliness. I leaned over to Mr N and whispered about a sketch I used to do: I’d act like there was something funny at the back of the church, start laughing hysterically, then someone would come on stage to ask what was wrong and join me in laughing. I asked if we could do it.
Like a loving husband, Mr N agreed.
Now I wish he hadn’t.
Back home that sketch would leave people in tears from laughing, but that night in a Wisconsin forest the result was very different. The host introduced me and I walked to the stage, greeted the audience, looked toward the back of the hall and began to laugh—hard. The plan was to be absurd enough that the audience would laugh at our nonsense.
I laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.
No one laughed with me.
Mr N came on stage, asked what was so funny and I pointed toward the imaginary source of hilarity. Still nobody turned to look. He joined my laughter and we both laughed some more.
And still no one laughed with us.
The more we committed to the bit, the more people stared at us with puzzled faces. My head shaking and exaggerated gestures didn’t help. At one point someone in the crowd muttered, “What the hell are they laughing at???” That line made it clear: our sketch had bombed.
I exited the stage, Mr N followed, and the audience gave us a polite round of applause—comfort clapping, not genuine laughter. I was drenched in embarrassment and ended up repeating motivational quotes to myself just to get through it. We still haven’t talked about it.
The lesson I took away: the joke that works in one culture doesn’t always translate to another.
Have you ever had a similarly embarrassing moment? What happened and how did you recover? I’d love to hear your stories.