Talk Like a Pirate Day, Part 2

It was about a year ago.

We were eating dinner at the dining table in our living room. Behind us, a tarp blocked off the real dining room, which had no ceiling. Sawdust and particles of whatever used to insulate our hundred-year-old attic covered the heavy cardboard that covered our wood floors. It was hot, and our summer renovation projects had reached the point where the glamour and excitement was wearing thin, replaced by impatience and the struggle to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The offender was a baguette.

I took a bite of what I imagine was a good sandwich, although the memory of its taste has turned to ash in retrospect. I heard an unprecedented crack. Baguettes always crunch, but this was a crack and then a strange, empty feeling between my tongue and lips. My tooth. My front tooth was bent forward. Detached but momentarily suspended between my top lip and the remaining sandwich. My whole body went cold.

I’m sure I scared the children a bit. I’m sure I said some choice words. But the next part of the story is all a blur of tears and fearful glances in the mirror and the awkward, lisping phone call to the emergency line for my dentist.

I should have known. Dentistry is never really permanent—and I’ve lost this crown once before—but the shock of that moment and ensuing regretful what-ifs came from the deepest places of irrationality. I must have jinxed myself when I was disgruntled about the shape of the tooth the other day. I think I’ve been pushing it forward with my tongue. Why didn’t they give me a proper retainer to hold everything in place? How are we ever going to pay for this? Why did I have to make sandwiches!?

I called in a personal favor from someone in my professional life—the kind of favor that you reserve for only the most dire circumstances. This offered a stop gap until the real work would begin.

To crown a tooth, the dentist shaves down your original into a creepy baby tooth, then covers it with a ceramic replica. I had snapped the baby tooth that previously held my crown, so the only way forward was a full dental implant. Different dentists and varying circumstances affect how this process will go, but in my case, it would take an entire year.

One year. One very hard year.

After the first surgery, I was fitted with a retainer-like device that held a temporary tooth in place so that I could go about my life as discreetly as possible. But those first several days especially, it was hard to be discreet. The swelling in my face took a while to subside. Correcting my lisp, several weeks more. I covered my mouth when I laughed. I began to compensate in my speech patterns to hold my top lip lower. I smiled with lips closed.

These stories are always easier to tell in retrospect. It’s easier to confess that I’ve been wearing a falsie now that my face once again feels whole. It’s easier to share how I struggled in the last year, once the worst of the circumstances are over. It’s much harder to invite others into the struggle as it happens. Even up until the day I had the final tooth fitted, I wasn’t sure how much of the story I might share, if any.

Through several more surgeries, check ins, and long periods of healing, God chipped away at me. He worked on my patience. He asked me to hand over some dreams. But in perhaps the most humbling blow, God challenged all the things I say I believe about appearance and identity. Would I be able to walk the talk with two of my strongest identifiers down for the count?

I—in the most painful sense—had to put my money where my mouth was.

Do I really believe that beauty is as beauty does?

Do I really believe that beauty is in the eye of the beholder?

Do I really believe that man looks at outward appearances, but God looks at the heart?

I fought for truth and lost most days. Some days I felt embarrassed, sometimes hopeless or depressed. It also hurt a lot. I lamented, then I felt silly for such vain frustrations. I was a regular mess.

But then, there was the retreat where I spoke slowly and carefully anyway because I wanted the women to come and hear the Word. Or the day when I decided to believe that my husband still enjoyed me. Or the time I bared an honest, toothless face for my closest friends. Over time, God was growing fruit. Maybe not farmers market fare. Maybe small or misshapen. But fruit, nonetheless.

I realized that I have to tell you about this horrible year I want to forget because it testifies to God’s power. He breaks sin’s strongholds. He uses our vulnerabilities and uses us despite them. He is generous when it seems that all He does is take. He is good. He is patient. He is grace. And He is not done with me yet.

ARrrrrrRRRRrrrr!