Kirkepiscatoid

Who would have ever believed that a $10 skateboard from 1968 would have resulted in about $20,000 lifetime cost over a shattered front tooth? But that is probably about how far I'm in over my left top front incisor.

When I broke that tooth, my mom sobbed all evening. It took forever for my front teeth to come in...so long, in fact, they sent me to speech therapy in the first grade because they were concerned that I was going to have life long problems with the "th" sound and the "f" sound. (Good thing, too, as often as I drop the F-bomb.)

I was considered "lucky" in my family because I seemed to be growing relatively straight teeth. But a skateboard mishap in 1968 ruined all that. I knocked off roughly a little over half of my left front upper incisor. I suddenly had an "imperfect mouth." I had a silvery metal cap on it until age 15, which constantly fell off, then the next three plus decades have been a series of crowns that never seem to fit right at the margin and promote gingivitis.

My imperfect mouth upset my mother greatly. She would badger me not to "smile big" on school picture day, because the glare of that shiny silver capped tooth bugged her to no end. She would remind me how "ugly" it was, how my moment of impetuosity with a skateboard led to my having an "ugly mouth." She would badger the dentist to put me in a "white tooth." She would send me back to "retake day" for school pictures because I ignored her advice and smiled big anyway. I would smile big again. This became an annual battle. She wouldn't like the school picture, send me to "retake day", the retake also showed the glaring silver tooth, so then she just wouldn't put my school pictures in the family Christmas cards.

"If you would only smile sweetly, and not show that big ugly tooth, I could put your picture in with the cards," she would say. Then my grandmother would gather them up and put them in HER Christmas cards, muttering to herself all the while. "Dumbest thing I ever heard of...not putting your own kid's picture in the card b/c she has a temporary crown. Jesus Christ...when she grows up she'll have a permanent one. I didn't raise her that way, that's for damn sure..."

But the fact of the matter is, I have accepted my "imperfect mouth" for a long time.

I am a real puzzle to the ladies who work at my dentist's office. They all have perfect teeth. It is, of course, one of the perks of working for a dentist. They think it's a little odd that I do not want to have all my front teeth capped, or veneered, or have braces to correct the crowded lower tooth I have in front. It becomes even MORE puzzling to them when I replace the front crown and ask my dentist to "beat up the crown a bit." He always angles the bottom a little, or puts a place on the bottom that looks like a repaired chip, plays with the margin a little. I want it to look as imperfect as the rest of my teeth.

But in this world where we can have perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect teeth, perfect boobs, and tighter faces, I must seem like such an oddball. I am going gray naturally. The beauty industry would starve if they had to depend on me. I have my perfect new crown scuffed up. I am sure I seem too happy with my imperfections for many people.

But that ease with my own imperfections is also what makes me fine with not bothering to need to believe in a Bible that is "inerrant." One of the books I've been reading lately is Bart Ehrman's Misquoting Jesus. A lot of people have been upset over that book. Some people don't want to consider the possibility that when one considered the way books were copied in ancient times, that it is physically impossible for the Bible to be "inerrant." They would rather believe in magic, and claim it is a miracle. That's ok, that's their belief. But it's not one I can sign up for.

Yet I believe. I believe in the promises the Bible has in store for me. I believe that there are truths in there for me. I believe that my salvation is outlined within its covers. But I also believe that it was written by imperfect humans. It was collected into its present form rather than a bunch of scattered books by imperfect humans. It has been interpreted by imperfect humans for millenia. It is read by me, an imperfect human. Yet for all these imperfections, it is the greatest book that has ever entered my life. It's the book I could never part with. It's the book I would keep if I had to throw the rest away. In an odd way, it is its imperfect nature that binds me to it, as tightly as its cover binds it.

When people want me to believe I have a perfect, inerrant book, I turn them down on their offer. It puzzles them. It makes them wonder if I am bound for Hell for saying such a thing. It makes them question my salvation in their own minds. Well, they need to understand that I think it is "perfectly imperfect." Just like my teeth.