Admitting your fears one to another

In the Christian New Testament, you'll find a short letter written by James, the half-brother of Jesus. The book is filled with actionable advice for the Christ-follower, so much so it's often described as the "Proverbs of the New Testament." That explains why, from my Sunday pulpit, I often quote James 5:16, "Confess your faults one to another and you will be healed." So today, I confess my most irrational fault, odontophobia. I'm afraid of dentists. It's irrational because there's simply no sane reason to fear my dentist's office. The receptionist is congenial, my hygienist a perfectionist and my dentist a consummate professional. My anxiety is irrational because I have perfect teeth – no cavities, straight-arrow perfect. In fact, one dentist facetiously offered me a million dollars for them. So, what's the problem? Me. You might say I'm overly sensitive. In fact, my Air Force dental file was actually labeled "sensitive patient." How did I earn that label? I guess I'm a wee bit too tactile. I can't stand the scraping, grinding and pounding of the water pick. The X-ray bitewings gag me, and the polishing paste chokes me. The glaring lights blind me, and the drilling sound makes my skin crawl. Think I'm exaggerating? Here's how my last visit went with my hygienist, whom I'll call Debbie. Me: "Can I have a blanket?" Debbie: "Are you cold?" Me: "No, I'm just missing my special 'blanky.' " Debbie: Stunned. Me: "Joking." Debbie brings a blanket and tucks me in as though she knows the drill. Dentist pun intended. I decline her offer of safety goggles, opting for my personal pair instead. I got them at a Utah truck stop during a summer drive through the salt flats. I save them for teeth cleaning, or in the event I'm ever asked to observe a nuclear blast. Soon, she pries open my mouth. Debbie: "Oh, my! How often do you brush your teeth?" Me, through a mouthful of latex-covered fingers: "Waily, but I whave a whack wissues." Debbie, withdrawing her instruments: "What?" Me: "I brush daily, but I still have plaque issues caused by high salinity." She brushes off my excuse and starts in with her water cannon. My feet kick the air. Debbie, with a tender hand on my shoulder: "Are you OK?" Me: "My former hygienist always put numbing gel on my gums." Debbie: Skeptical stare through the glaring lights. Me, pleading: "It's better than the laughing gas my old dentist used." Debbie: "Oh, my. I don't think we have to go that far." Still, ever the gentle professional, she spreads numbing gel on my gums. Instantly, it feels like an ant colony is migrating into my mouth. But for the next 40 minutes, the numbing effects keep me relatively still. Debbie: "See, that wasn't so bad. Was it?" Me: Seriously considering a Bible quote to relate dentistry and hell, where "… there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth." (Matthew 13:42). Instead, I rise quietly to gather my party favor bag containing floss, a toothbrush and sensitive toothpaste. I take my usual 15-minute decompression break in the lobby. Truthfully, I know I have to give myself credit for once again facing my irrational fears. I did that by first admitting my fear to Debbie. After she heard my fear, we laughed our way through it. But the laughter didn't stop there. I decided to write about my fears so you could join me in laughing at myself. As we made our next appointment, I asked Debbie how to spell her name. Debbie: "Why?" Me, mouth still numb: "I'm a 'syndicated walumnist.' I'm going to make you infamous, I mean famous." Debbie just laughs. But now, you get the last laugh. Note: No pastors were harmed in this dental cleaning. This column was excerpted from Norris Burkes' book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving." All of his books are available at Amazon or on his website. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602; or call him at 530-265-4711.