I don't love the dentist. I don't. I don't love the waterpick toothscraper that feels like a fine mist all over your face as it makes a high-pitched mosquito buzz all through your head and tingles deeply all over your body. I found my thumbs pressed together, pushing against one another as hard as possible the entire time I was being waterpicked. I thought I would try out some mindfulness, breathing in to six, breathing out for 12. It didn't work. I found myself breathing in for six and breathing out in four. Then it was three and three, maybe even less. Then I tried to imagine the spot God gave me when I was asked by my counselor to find an image that represents my relationship with God.
The image I got was of field with really tall grasses. It's got a stream off to the left and a willow tree with long branches that flow in the wind and their ends leave rings of ripples when they touch the cool, clear stream water. Off in the distance of the grassy field, eventually, I saw children playing and laughing, chasing each other. It's funny because their clothes are sort of 1800's, flowy dresses and knicker type pants on the boys and they all have on floppy hats. Not outfits kids today would be caught dead in.
So, as I sat in the dentist chair and listened to the mosquito attack my teeth with sharp pricks, I tried to put myself in the above scene, leaving the reality of the chair for the serenity of my glade. Only, when I got under the tree, and was hid by the unmoving tree's branches in the still air, I felt the incredible sense of God's presence in this place. That led me to think about what a petulant child I've been of late. Beyond that, though, I still feel like God met me in that moment, despite my line that I've drawn in the sand, the line that says, "You really aren't God until You change these things in my life." He didn't seem to care about my line or my demands. He seemed more to care about me, how I'm doing and that I met Him in that space. The calm lasted for less than seconds. It was so brief and I desperately wanted that time back, that I kept trying to return there. Only my clasped hands, tensed back, arched neck and tightened jaw made that practically impossible.
Now, as I sit here and type, I wish I had that time back. I wish I could just get over myself, crawl onto His lap in the throne room (a place I've been many, many, many times) and surrender. Only, what I desire is so large, so insurmountable and my belief that He is holding out on me so strong that I find it really hard to surrender to a God who is intentionally disappointing me.
There it is. I call it what it is. Entitlement. It's nestled deep in my chest, clouding my thinking and making me think that what I see is not what I 'deserve.' As if I deserve much. Anything. But I fully believe I do and there lies the problem.