I think I have a cavity. I was around 12 the last time I had a cavity, and I don’t think that I’m being graceful about this one, at least not in the part of my head that God sees. Maybe the world didn’t know about my dilemma, but God sure does (well, before this post). He hears me wailing and sees me cringing and knows that I am just not offering it up to him.

How long was Jesus on that cross?

It’s one of my front teeth, and I’ll admit to vanity: what if it has to be pulled? (Voice of Reason: “Come ON, Sarah, it’s probably just a stinkin’ regular cavity, the kind that gets filled!”) I’ll admit to fear: I don’t remember how much it hurts to have a cavity pulled, but I remember the after-effects of all that Novocain, and it’s not something I want to repeat, though I might have no choice. (Voice of Reason: “Novocain is better than none!”). I’ll admit to a general sense of “hey!” about the whole idea of a cavity: this just isn’t a good time for a cavity. (Voice of Reason: “And just when IS a good time?”)

How long was Jesus on that cross?

One little cavity is throwing my world into a tailspin, at least in the part of my head that God sees. One little cavity, which insurance will mostly cover, and which isn’t such an unusual event in the world. It’s not unique, it’s not original, it’s not the first time. So what’s my problem?

That’s my reflection for the morning, as I sip coffee that tastes great but that sends a twinge through the front of my mouth…sometimes.

How long was Jesus on that cross?

What did he suffer for me?

How do I add to his suffering in my daily life?

The dentist appointment is scheduled. The cavity can be taken care of. So can those lingering “cavities” in my spiritual life. It’s as easy as confession.