When God Poked Me... With a Microphone

How a beach concert, a painful comment, and one answered prayer pushed me toward freedom.

I live in Wisconsin, which is a beautiful place—if you are a penguin, a snowman, or a person who thinks “wind chill” is a fun personality trait. I am none of those things.

I’m from Monterrey—one of the hottest cities in Mexico—and somehow I have survived 15 years in what often feels like a very polite glacier. Winters here are long, dark, and dramatic. Snowstorms show up like uninvited guests who also eat all your snacks. Temperatures drop to numbers I didn’t even know existed. And the town I live in? Let’s just say it’s… quiet. The kind of quiet where your weekend plans start to feel like a rerun.

One snowy cold day after the other.

For a while, my friends and I did the same thing every weekend: dinner or a bar, small talk, home. Repeat. Groundhog Day, but with appetizers.

Then one day, a woman I knew from work invited my friend and me to see a local band that played rock hits from the 80’s.

I didn’t just “like” 80’s rock. I grew up on it. I’m a Bon Jovi girl. I lived for Def Leppard, Poison, and all the glorious chaos of that era. Hair, attitude, heartbreak, neon, and big feelings. So when these guys came out dressed in wigs, makeup, and tight neon clothes like they had time-traveled straight from 1987, I felt something wake up inside me.

And they weren’t just playing songs—they were performing. They were charming. They interacted with the audience. They made the whole room feel alive.

I had a blast. A real blast. The kind that makes you forget you live in a freezer.

After that, I started following them wherever I could. Sometimes more than two hours away from my town. I became that person who arrives an hour early just to stand right in front, close enough to sing my lungs out like rent was due.

Can't help but to cheer and follow a band that brings light and happiness to a frigid cold place.

My friends had to rotate shifts to accompany me because, unlike me, they were not trying to earn a doctorate in groupie behavior. We took pictures. We chatted during breaks. Over time, I built what I thought was some kind of friendship bond with a couple of them—especially the frontman.

And listen, I know how this sounds. “Martha… you thought the frontman was your friend?” Yes. Yes, I did. Please don’t throw tomatoes yet. I’m already humbled.

But I was genuinely thankful. That band had come into my boring, cold weekends and injected them with fun. They gave me something to look forward to. And I told him that—every concert. I admired their talent, their energy, their ability to gather a crowd of mostly the same generation and make us feel like teenagers again (minus the metabolism, but still).

Then after a couple of years, the frontman revealed he had very advanced-stage cancer.

I was devastated. My heart truly hurt. It’s weird how deeply you can care about someone you barely know. And yet… there I was. Praying for him every night. Following updates. Rooting for him like he was family.

He had incredible support from his wife, friends, and followers. And the wildest part? Even during treatment, he never missed a show. Sometimes the other band members had to sing some songs for him because the treatment obviously made him sick and exhausted—but they still showed up. They kept going.

After about a year, I found out he was in remission.

I was thrilled. Truly. I thanked God for it.

The Dream Trip

This band had a tradition: a yearly trip to a beach resort, inviting fans to come along. Like a vacation + concerts + community.

When I heard about it, it sounded like a dream—especially because my happy place is Cancún. Warmth, water, laughter, sunshine. Everything Wisconsin is not.

And my incredible boyfriend made that dream possible for me. When I told people we were going, my friends couldn’t believe it. I mean… I couldn’t believe it either. Am I fifteen again?

So we went with about 150 people from throughout Wisconsin. The weather wasn’t great (which felt personally offensive, honestly), but we still made it fun.

The first night, some of us stayed at the hotel bar dancing until late—late for my age, at least. It was joyful. It was silly. It felt like life was finally warm again.

The trip included two concerts: one by the beach at night, and another acoustic set by the pool.

Beach concert night came, and there I was: first row, singing my heart out. I was next to a sweet 19-year-old and her mom—also dedicated fans. We were living our best “groupie but make it wholesome” life.

I remember literally thanking God in that moment. Like, God, thank You for this. Thank You for joy. Thank You for music. Thank You for this little pocket of happiness.

And then… the frontman ended the show with this:

“We are in the Gulf of America!”

I froze. Wait. Did I hear that correctly?

I’m not a politics fanatic, but I live in the United States—I know the climate right now. I know the hate toward immigrants. I know the way certain jokes aren’t jokes anymore. And even though my family and I are now U.S. citizens… we were born in Mexico. That phrase felt like a stabbing. My heart literally hurt.

Please. Not him. Not this. Not here. Especially in Mexico—while being a guest in that country—saying it into a microphone like it was a cute vacation slogan.

I had had some beers, so my emotions were louder than usual. I felt sad and angry, and I texted him something brief but real:

“Gulf of America? I was born in Mexico. You’re directly hurting me.”

He replied that he knew… but he “couldn’t help it.”

Couldn’t help it.

The next day, my mood was completely different. Not tipsy-hurt. Sober-hurt. The kind that sits in your chest like a stone.

And then the cherry on the glazing (because apparently my life needed extra garnish): during the pool concert, he did it again. Loudly. Knowing I was there. Insensitive to the wonderful hotel staff that eagerly were helping them, or to any national guests...

“This is the Gulf of America, damn it!”

My boyfriend and I couldn’t believe it.

It felt like he was yelling, “I don’t give a #@! about you or your feelings.”

Hit on the face by God, with a microphone.

The same person I had been following, praising, praying for. The person I thought had at least a sliver of care for the humans who supported him.

I felt (and still feel) like such a fool.

A fool for believing there was a bond. A fool for confusing proximity with connection. A fool for thinking gratitude would naturally be met with basic respect.

The Prayer I Didn’t Expect God to Answer Like This

After that, I was wrecked.

And I did what I do when I’m wrecked (not drink, ha!): I prayed. I asked the Holy Spirit for guidance. I asked God what to do.

Because here’s the thing: we already had tickets to see them in a couple of months. And they were also coming to my town the next week. I had been looking forward to it like a child looks forward to Christmas morning.

But now? Now I couldn’t imagine standing in front of him again, singing like everything was fine.

Something had changed.

And while I was praying, something else hit me—clear as day.

There’s something I’ve been asking God help with for a while:

Partying too much and everything that comes with it, meaning, drinking.

Every time I go to one of their concerts, I drink more than I should. I knew it. I was aware of it. I asked God to help me stop. Like a lot of things, I can’t do it alone.

But I also couldn’t help going to those concerts. I loved them. I looked forward to them. They were my escape from winter and boredom and routine.

And God knows me.

God knows that as much as I loved the music, it was quietly hurting my mind and soul through the elements attached to it. He knows how easily “just a fun night” becomes “I don’t want to feel anything tonight.” He knows how a habit can hide inside a good time and still steal your peace.

So what did God do?

He closed the door.

Not gently. Not politely. Not with a cute little sign that says, “This season is ending, sweetie.”

No.

He closed it bluntly.

And honestly… it makes sense.

Because if the door had stayed even a bit ajar, I would have kept walking through it.

The Hardest Part

I won’t pretend this is easy. It’s hard.

It’s hard to know they’ll be here next week and I’m going to miss my chance to have fun. It’s hard to grieve something that brought me joy. It’s hard to accept that sometimes the thing you love is also the thing that’s keeping you stuck.

It’s hard to sit with disappointment and not numb it.

Quoting Fletcher: "Not quite there, but healing."

But I can see God’s purpose in this, even though it hurts. And as strange as it sounds, I’m thankful. Not for the pain—but for the clarity. For the interruption. For the rescue.

I’m sharing this for anyone who’s had to walk away from something they loved because it wasn’t loving them back. I’m still hurt. I’m still mad. And I’m also trying to be wise enough not to turn my pain into a public bonfire I’ll regret later. So here’s my truth: I’m stepping away. Not because I’m fragile — because I’m finally honest about what this “fun” was attached to. I asked God for help, and I didn’t expect the answer to come through heartbreak… but I recognize His handwriting now.

"Holy Spirit, keep me steady. Teach me how to grieve without returning. And give me new joy that doesn’t require numbing to feel alive." Amen.