Being a good Lutheran, I am not the kind of guy who is comfortable with sitting at the front of the sanctuary during church services. The very idea of standing at up the podium and delivering a talk goes against my ingrained sense of Lutheran shyness and modesty. After all, an extroverted Lutheran is one who, when he speaks with you, looks you directly in the neck.

But standing up front and addressing a roomful of people is exactly where I found myself on a recent Friday evening. I was invited to speak as part of the Comedy Night Program that was held at Grace Lutheran Church in Watertown. It was a fundraising event to help pay for roof repairs, a gathering whose stated goal was to “raise the roof.”

The Grant County Public Library had asked me to give a talk a few weeks prior to the event at Grace Lutheran. As I delivered my talk to the roomful of library patrons, I was touched to see that such a large number of people placed such a high value on their local library that they were willing to leave their warm homes on a frigid South Dakota winter evening.

Part of my talk at the library included sharing a couple of chapters from my book, “Dear County Agent Guy.” One of the chapters I read is titled “I’m Gonna Marry Mrs. Mortimer!” It’s a story about 9-year-old me falling in love with my third- grade teacher only to have my romantic dreams dashed when I was informed that she was already married. Like many of my stories, it’s either mostly true or it could have been true.

During a spirited question and answer session following my talk –it was the most fun I’ve had that didn’t involve a carnival ride — a lady told me that she had known Vi Mortimer and that Mrs. Mortimer was every bit as sweet and kindly as I remembered. It was gratifying to learn that my memory is more dependable than my wife often says it is.

It was intimidating to address the gathering at Grace Lutheran. This was partially because their pastor, Reverend Cheryl, was on hand. Reverend Cheryl has undergone professional training and has developed a set of finely honed speaking skills. I, on the other hand, essentially feigned my way into the public speaking arena. The adage “fake it until you make it” is OK in theory; in practice, it can be downright terrifying.

I once saw a poll which found that people feared public speaking more than such things such as finding a spider in your breakfast cereal or being subjected to a snap audit by the IRS. There’s a good reason for this. Looking down from the business end of a pulpit is nerve wracking. It feels as though you’re standing in front of a very large firing squad that’s smiling expectantly back at you.

As I glanced out at the gathering at Grace Lutheran, I realized that these folks are my people. Each of them was humble and polite and capable of whipping up a delicious hotdish using a recipe that’s embedded deep within their memory vaults.

I talked about how glad I am for all the suffering I endured as a kid growing up on our family’s dairy farm. It’s a scientific fact that suffering builds character, so I have character coming out of my ears. Just ask my wife; I’ve often heard her telling people that I’m full of it.

The best part of giving a speech is hearing the audience respond to what you are saying in the way that you had hoped. The second-best part is the one where you say, “Thank you” and sit back down. It’s not unlike skydiving: there’s a brief interval of sheer terror followed shortly by the realization that you’ve survived. You look around, blinking, and have to stop yourself from shouting, “I made it! I’m alive!”

My wife and I are the kind of people who think that there are no strangers in this world, only friends whom we haven’t met. This has proven to be true time and again.

Several new friends chatted with us after my talk. A lady named Sherri Brindle told us that her family used to own the farm where my uncle Wilmer and aunt Bev had lived. Bergh Cemetery, where my great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, and sisters are buried, was named for Sherri’s ancestors. The world is often smaller than one might think.

We had a very pleasant time with our fellow Lutherans. You might say that it was an evening filled with grace.