My crown came out today.

I was chewing a saltwater taffy from Trader Joe’s. I’ve always had a sweet tooth. Looking back, I loved candy. In fact, I still do. Sometimes I’ll be driving home from a long day at church, a few hours spent giving, listening, preaching, leading. And on the way home, I’ll pull over at a gas station and pick up some Bubblicious.

You know the one. The kind where the flavor lasts all of 18 seconds—but those 18 seconds are glorious. Or I’ll grab a pack of Mentos, pop one in and pretend it’s a small act of self-care. I suppose that’s why I have the crown in the first place.

I didn’t do a very good job taking care of my teeth.

I didn’t brush correctly. I found that out in my twenties, when a dental hygienist kindly asked me if anyone had ever taught me how to brush in circular motions. No, they hadn’t. So, in my twenties and thirties, I had to relearn how to brush my teeth—like a child, with a mirror, a timer, and a Sonicare toothbrush humming in my hand.

I’ve managed to stave off cavities for the last decade, but before that, it was a mess. Every time I switch dentists, the initial x-rays light up like the Fourth of July. Fillings everywhere. Each white streak on the screen carries a quiet shame. And I find myself making small talk, laughing nervously, “Yeah, I loved candy growing up.” It’s true, but it’s also a deflection.

My mouth is a map of my childhood.

Each molar holds a story. The places I cut corners. The seasons I ignored pain. The ways I coped. I carry it all with me—like we all do, in different forms.

Something about losing a crown three years shy of forty made me feel especially vulnerable today.

It wasn’t just dental. It was existential.

A quiet sense of humility came over me at my desk, tongue tracing the chiseled down tooth edge where a polished surface used to be. I am getting older. I’m still young, of course—forty is the new thirty, or so I’m told—but today, I felt the slow erosion of strength.

I thought of my dad.

A few years shy of seventy now.

He started out as a tile setter right after high school—because no other opportunities were open to him as a Christian in Soviet Ukraine. No university. No scholarships. No dream jobs. Just hard labor.

When he moved to the States in 1990, he worked construction in L.A., union jobs with long hours and minimal safety nets. He blew out his back early on. Years later, his knees gave out. He’s still working with his hands, but his body carries the years like bricks on his shoulders.

And I thought about healing.

I just preached a sermon on healing. We were asking, “Does God still heal today?”

I believe He does.

But it’s funny how life doesn’t always give you neat lines between Sunday’s declarations and Monday’s disruptions. Our household got hit with some sort of coughing bug this week—maybe amplified by seasonal allergies. And just this morning, my wife took our 18-month-old to the pediatrician for what we think is hand, foot, and mouth disease.

We prayed. We laid hands. We asked for healing.

But what will likely happen is this: her tiny body will fight off the virus over the next few days. She’ll be uncomfortable. She’ll cry. She won’t sleep well. But her body is well-designed. God built it that way. She will develop an immunity. Her body will remember this virus, and it likely won’t touch her again.

Becoming formed into Christ’s image is a lot like dental work.

It’s slow. It takes regular check-ups. It usually happens after something breaks. But over time, the structure is stronger than before.

Healing, too, is a slow kind of grace.

And all healing is a marker of humility.

We want healing—sometimes desperately. We cry out for it. But when we get it, we often forget we ever asked. That’s human nature. But in that moment of need, when all you want is to be brought back to a time before your throat burned, before the body ached, before the pain started—healing reminds you how fragile you really are.

We are not invincible. We are not in control.

We are not the Healer.

All healing requires trust—trust in someone else.

A dentist, a doctor, a prayer team, the immune system God gave us.

And ultimately, trust in God Himself.

Maybe you’ve felt that quiet grief of aging—your body doesn’t bounce back the way it used to.

Or maybe it’s emotional. A tender place reopened.

You’re healing, but slower this time.

Be patient with yourself.

Healing takes trust.

I scheduled my appointment for tomorrow. 8:15 a.m. sharp. My dentist will take that fragile little crown, still intact, and cement it back into place. He’ll hand me some instructions. I’ll nod. I’ll say thank you. And I’ll walk out reminded once again that even small repairs require someone else’s skill, someone else’s help.

Maybe I’ll cut back on the sugar. I already eat far less than I used to. But today, I’ll remember:

Healing comes in many forms.

All of it is grace.

And grace always humbles.

Reflection Questions

• Where are you in need of healing right now—physically, emotionally, spiritually?

• Do you see any places in your life that need slow, steady repair?

• Are there painful areas in your past that still leave marks—your own “fillings”—and what would it mean to name those and bring them before God?

• What would it look like for you to practice humility and trust in the process of becoming whole?