Dental Divinity

My dentist loves me.

Maybe don’t tell him I said so, though. After all, we’ve only just met.

After my regular dental practice closed, I had to find a new caretaker for my teeth. A practice near my work had room for a new patient, so I scheduled a visit.

The man who shook my hand the day of that first appointment didn’t act like a dentist. We talked about aspirations, and beliefs, and life goals. He told me about the day he took typical dentistry in hand, looked it over, and decided that wasn’t how the job should be done. Not if he had anything to say about it.

I nodded and leaned in to the conversation, captivated by my new dentist’s unorthodoxy and his philosophical bent.

In the presence of this positive force, I found myself wanting to be, not just a better flosser, but a better person. A person who takes responsibility for her decisions, who is deliberate in her choices, who remembers to use the mouthwash instead of letting it sit on the counter for a month before hiding it in a cabinet where it could conveniently be forgotten.

“Now,” he said. “If you’ll permit me, I’d like to take a look in your mouth.”

My insides cringed. 

The last thing I wanted was this nice man, with his inspiring words and optimistic view of what a person can be, to look inside my mouth.

The thing is...things aren’t so perfect in there. 

The sins of my youth have descended upon my squarely middle-aged muzzle. I don’t remember being a bad brusher as a kid, but the many silver fillings flashing from my molars attest that I used to be delinquent with a toothbrush. I’ve had more advanced dental work done than I care to admit, none of which makes me look too good as a human being who is supposed to be able to manage basic self-care.

Most of the time, I can hide the flawed teeth that give evidence of a flawed human. 

But that day in the office, someone I respected - whose good opinion, I admit, I instinctively craved - wanted me to open up and let him see the unmistakable evidence that I am, at least dentally, a failure.

It’s not that hard to show people our good side. Put on the right outfit, some kicky boots or a killer jacket, and you can walk down the street feeling pretty darn good about yourself. 

Make small talk, make eye contact, make someone laugh, and the world gives you a solid thumbs-up and says you’re okay, you’re likable, you’re doing good.

It’s another thing, though, to open up and let someone look inside.

I don’t want people to know I’m weak. I don’t want them to see my mistakes, my incompetencies, my petty envy and noxious undercurrent of pride. I don’t want them to see that I haven’t kept myself clean, that I’ve let destructive habits and hurtful actions settle in the cracks and hide there, eating away at what I pretend is white and pretty.

Now and again, if you’re lucky, you meet someone you like enough to let look at the hidden parts of you, the gunk under the jacket and boots. 

If you’re really lucky, they like you anyway.

And if they love you, they help you do better.

One by one, as his assistant took notes, my new dentist detailed the flaws in each tooth, noting the cracks, the stains, the proof that I messed up in the past and am maybe still not doing so great, teeth care-wise.

He took a good, long look at that which I wanted to hide. And then he patted me on the shoulder, gave a little speech about the importance of flossing, and then invited me back to see him again. We would talk about steps I could take to have the mouth I wanted. 

And, he said, he would help me.

Our Creator doesn’t need a dental chair to see our spiritual plaque. Unhideable in His gaze, our flaws are on full display, even as He pleads with us to brush, to floss, to cut it out with the bad habits already and take care of the precious lives and hearts He gave us.

I wouldn’t blame Him if He shooed us out of His office in exasperation.

But that’s not His way. He’s a do-something God, a God who took a good, long look at us and still loved us enough to come to be one of us, to be a sacrifice in our place, knowing we’ll never get life right on our own.

He’s a do-something God who is there in our daily battles, listening, supporting, guiding us from the inside, offering His Words and the shoulders and arms and ears and hearts of the humans around us, the people He has given to prop us up and prod us to be more than self-absorbed lumps.

When you love someone, you help them do better.

May God give me people who love me enough to remind me about the parts of me I ought to fix. And may He give me a do-something heart that loves enough to look at the gunk of my fellow man, like them anyway, and, as best I can, help them do better.

First Published in The Alpena News on November 9, 2019.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. 1 Thessalonians 5:11

It was winter, that’s for sure.

All was peaceful when we left for an Illinois getaway the weekend of New Year’s Eve. The roads were clear and a little fluff of snow made the trees’ underskirts look pretty. Peace itself had settled into the air like a mist.

Boy howdy, things did change.

After a few nice days of eating too many snacks and playing Ninja with the nieces and nephews, it was time to head north. Things were fine until about Grand Rapids. Then, it became winter.

The usually easy trip up 131 was slug-like as giant snowflakes descended en masse on the slush-coated road and the already dim daylight faded to black. When we stopped in Gaylord for windshield wiper fluid, my driver-husband looked beat. After nearly five hours to make a three hour drive, I couldn’t blame him.

When I offered to drive, he nodded gratefully and looked lovingly at the gas station coffee cup clutched in his hands.

Gaylord to home is usually an easy hour and a quarter. Except when it isn’t.

Winter and the stretch of 75 from Gaylord to Indian River are like baking soda and vinegar. Nice enough on their own, but put them together and there’s going to be trouble. It’s a gorgeous stretch of road, don’t get me wrong. One of my favorite drives, when I can see it. But there’s something about the shape of the hills, maybe, or maybe the trees are lined up just so, that makes the snow fly eighty directions at once, swirling over the road as if summoned by magic and blasting into the front windshield like you’re navigating through hyperspace.

I don’t mind winter driving, and I like a good challenge. Even so, it was dicey going. There wasn’t much in the way of traffic on the road, mostly just us, so any tracks in my lane were faint and swirled with white. All you can do at a time like that is keep going forward, eyes on the road, following the tracks and hoping they don’t disappear altogether.

Staying in your lane on a bright, cheerful day isn’t hard. You barely have to think about it. In a snowstorm, though, the lane becomes your everything.

The magician-whirled snow in front of me teased and gapped, showing glimpses of bare pavement and then hiding them away. There was darkness on the left and right that I figured was trees, and the flat space in between had to be road. But my place on that flat space was indistinguishable. With hazy parameters and no tracks to follow, I felt lost, barely knowing which way was forward.

And then, bumpety bumpety bumpety.

Oh, that glorious rumble strip in the middle of the road. I’d forgotten it was there.

On a sunny, easy day, you barely notice those bumps. But in the dark in the snow in an uncertain time, they’re a lifeline. You can feel them under your tire, reassuring you that you’re headed in the right direction. They gently steer you back into your lane and encourage you to keep moving forward.

The bumps help you know where the road is.

You can be going along through life fine and dandy, and then the road can become unclear. Something new changes the landscape; something old stirs up a whirlwind. A loss. A beginning. An uncertainty. A worry.

Eyes to the road, you follow the known path as best you can, moving forward because that’s the only direction you can go. Make the decision, feed the kids, wash the dishes. Forward, slowly forward.

And sometimes, not always but sometimes, the road disappears. It’s a whiteout, and you don’t know where to go.

And then, bumpety bumpety bumpety.

When things are going well, we hardly notice them, the bumps. But in the storm, when we are desperate, they are what leads us home.

The unexpected compassion.

The offer of a chair and a Kleenex.

The email, the text, the kind eyes.

The “You can do it” and the “I’m here.”

A lifeline. Each little bump adding to the other little bumps to make a line to be leaned into, a reassurance under your heart that you’re not lost, a little push in the direction you should be going.

The bumps can’t travel your path for you. But they can help you on your way.

We were made by a God who was committed to His creation, though it strayed from Him over and over. We are loved by a God who had compassion for His lost ones, compassion that led to a hill and a cross and a grave. We are cared for by a God who comforts and encourages and says, “I’m here,” and slips bumps under our feet and leads us Home.

And we are sent by a God who uses us to bump our way into other people’s lives and take our place in their lifeline.

It is so easy to tear down. But it’s easy to build up, too. A word. A look. A connection. A moment, just a moment, to see the person inside. They’re all bumps in the line that keep us from spinning off into the night. They matter. They’re needed. They can change the world, bumpety bumpety bump.

It’s winter, and somewhere out there someone is feeling lost.

Be a bump.

First published in The Alpena News on January 12, 2019