"You have beautiful teeth," the dentist and his hygienists told me "But they're extremely weak and cavity-prone. There's not really anything you can do about that."
This was their explanation for why, after I'd spent the last six months putting extra work into taking special care of my teeth, I returned to find out that I had two cavities.
That incident was a few years ago, and I kind of gave up on the dentist after that--why bother? I wondered. If there's nothing I can do, why go through the torture of sitting in a sticky chair with a blinding light in my eyes while someone scrapes my teeth and pokes my gums with a piece of metal? I remembered all the times I'd spent in the chair in my youth with my mouth propped open by metal contraptions, my gums shot up with Novocaine, and my teeth filled with who-knows-what. *shudder* No, I decided to spare myself anymore of that pain.
Lately though, I've had a little voice in my ear telling me how important it is to visit the dentist regularly, how it's good to have your teeth cleaned by someone who knows what they're doing every once in awhile as a refresher and a preventative for future disease and decay.
Finally, the prodigal patient returned. I was received with a fair scolding, then loaded down with a new toothbrush, free floss, and coupons for fluoride rinse to encourage me to do better this time around.
A few days later, I stood in line for confession and studied the crucifix at the front of the church. I suddenly imagined Jesus as a dentist, scraping away at the plaque on my soul. Like my teeth, I am weak (and sinful), and there's not much I can do about it except keep trying to do what He tells me--and keep coming back to the sacraments for a deep cleaning, for guidance, for grace.
Maybe that's the best part--God not only receives us back with open arms, but He also doesn't scold (though sometimes the transformation comes with pain), and He always loads us up with grace for the journey, to restore us, to nourish us so that we can do better next time.
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