Anxiety in the Dentist's Chair

I felt uncomfortable, constrained, and overly concerned. Was this anxiety?

“One more. Ok—one last sticky, gummy, gluey, clinging, syrupy, jelly piece. Then, get back on the bus. It is time to go.” The conversation inside my head kept me moving. While traveling in another country, our large group stopped in a local candy shop to sample a smorgasbord of Turkish Delight before returning to our hotel and to our conference—a delightful ending to a delightful day. Or so it seemed.

Suddenly (without warning) the last sugary blob in my mouth felt anything but delightful. “Did I just bite down on the hull of a pistachio nut?” If only.

Within moments it became apparent that the unwanted souvenir I was chewing on was definitely not the hull of a pistachio nut; instead, what I held in my mouth was the gold crown off my tooth! Ouch. My sweet outing just turned sour.

In a matter of days, when the conference ended, I returned home, and found myself facing “a delightful (?) procedure.” For the two-hour technique, the chair was tilted back with my feet higher than my head, bright lights beamed down, and strange medicinal odors hung in the air.

Actually, this arrangement felt familiar. But my mental thought process did not feel familiar. While my body was subjected to science, what would I do with my brain?

Generally, I am fine with dental work. Hey—my dentist deserves a five star review, and his assistant could put a rhino at ease. They even provide a blanket, a pillow, and a moist face towel! 

Nonetheless, an unfamiliar mental challenge descended and caught me totally by surprise. (Eventually I would listen to an audiobook, but at the moment my mind had a mind of its own.)

I felt uncomfortable, constrained, and overly concerned. Was this anxiety?

When anxious thoughts multiply within me, Your consolations delight my soul (Psalm 94:19 NASB). Whew. Thank you, Holy Spirit; I needed that. (Observation: anxious thoughts actually multiply. They do not stay singular. They are not alone or isolated or random. The Bible is right. They actually multiply.)

Then, onto my perplexing mental medical scene, a glorious idea broke forth.

The English alphabet has 26 letters. What if I take my mind through 26 different attributes of God while I wait alone the fifteen minutes for the numbing medication to take effect?

And so I silently began:

A Almighty: God, You are almighty.

B Beautiful: God, You are beautiful.

C Concerned: God, You are concerned about my tooth.

D Dear: God, You are so dear to love me the way You do.

E Ever-present: God, You are ever-present. I am not alone here in this dental chair.

F Faithful: God, You are faithful to always meet my need for help.

G Good: God, You are so good to have gotten me safely home with this problem.

And on and on...26 times for all 26 letters in the alphabet.

With each letter, with each attribute, with each characteristic, my beloved heavenly Father came more sharply into focus. Simultaneously, my mind calmed down and my body relaxed. Soon I felt ensconced in a cocoon of supernatural love. Cease striving (let go, relax) and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10 NASB).

Alphabet of Attributes

Since that day in the dentist’s chair, I have found this mental exercise helpful far beyond the original setting. The delightful Alphabet of Attributes idea is transferable into other situations like waking up in the middle of the night.

Thankfully, my tooth is repaired. But make no mistake about it, I will say, “No thank you,” the next time I am offered Turkish Delight. I will leave my portion for Edmund. 

Living with Eternal Intentionality: When did you recently feel mentally challenged? How did you navigate yourself out of the quagmire?

Elder Care: to do (and not to do)

Today’s guest post by Carolyn Culbertson touches on a much-talked-about topic. Carolyn, a gifted speaker and writer, serves with the campus ministry of Cru in 7 states of the Greater Northwest. Her expertise focuses on helping to design student retreats and conferences, and mentoring staff and students. Here, out of her own personal life, she shares.

I am not good at caregiving. I don’t like it. I am impatient. But I am figuring some things out, and this is what I tell myself.

Do what must be done.

Not what you think could be done, or what you could do, or what they would have done when they were younger. My Mom has always been a gardener and gardeners look at their own garden with a critical eye. She still does. “There’s a gap there…I think I should take that out and plant something else…I just haven’t been able to get out there.” She is forgetting that I have spent hours and hours and hours working in her garden.  But it is not enough—and it never will be. So, I will do what must be done—and not what could be done.

Do what they can’t, not what they can.

It is painful to see Mom struggling to get up. It is easier to just make her breakfast, or bring the cup of tea (and lots of times, I do). But if she doesn’t keep getting up…she won’t be able to. Everybody needs to do what he or she can.

Do what you can.

You can’t fix this. You can’t make them happy. You can’t keep them from looking back with regrets and resentments. You can’t. You really can’t fix all their aches and pains. You cannot make their life what they—and you— remember.

Do what’s important.

I tend to bustle in and be efficient. Sometimes the important thing is not what I can get one, but listening to the same story once again.

And finally…remember the motto! “Everybody is doing the best they can with the brain damage they’ve got.”

Including me.

Redemption of Rejection

A postscript is appropriate to last week's blog post Is Humiliation Ever Helpful?

I wrote:

On this particular Monday afternoon in May, I sat alone in my car and reread the email. “We have decided to pass.” The words stung as the reality of rejection once again raised a menacing head. The final word from yet another publisher (through my literary agent to me) carried a fresh wave of disappointment. For the twelfth time—12th, 10 + 2, a dozen—I acknowledged rejection of my manuscript, and battled the temptation to take the message personally.

Though a neophyte in the writing arena, I ached for the realization of my dream. Would anyone ever share my vision to minister to leaders' wives and desire to publish my manuscript?

There is more to the story.  

Forty-eight hours later, May 3rd, I casually opened a new email from my agent. To my overwhelming surprise a different publisher announced the following: “I have reviewed the proposal and sample chapters and would be delighted to publish….”

Hyperventilating, I tried to absorb the meaning. Disbelief and delight competed for control as I raced down the hall of our office searching for Larry; he alone understood my agony of waiting four years for this moment. Indeed, joyful jubilation marked our celebration!  

(Sigh) Yes. At long last, my manuscript has a home. The Leader’s Wife, Living with Eternal Intentionality, published by Ambassador International, is expected to be released in early 2018.

Bottom line: the Bible is right.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy (Proverbs 13:12 TLB).

Living with Eternal Intentionality: When have you waited for a God-given dream to become a reality? How, deep within your soul, did the realization make you feel?