Telling someone they have food stuck in their teeth is a real act of vulnerability.
No—really. Sit tight.
There’s a level of necessary intimacy. You have to look closely at the person—and you have to admit to having looked closely. This wasn’t a passing glance; this was a “I-see-you-and-I see-what-you-could-be-but-this-thing-is-blocking-your-beauty-and-I-have-tell-you-so-you-get-rid-of-it” look.
The very act of calling attention to that unsightly, wayward piece of who-knows-what betrays the fact that you care. At a minimum, you don’t want this other person going through life marred by this unpleasant-if-temporary stain. You speak up, you reach out, and you necessarily risk rejection.
It’s not hard for that other person to blush, scowl and rush off. Why did you embarrass me? Why did you bring attention to me? Why weren’t you more discreet—or even better, silent?
Your would-be good deed recoils on you. Now you’re the villain.
An admission of intimacy. The threat of rejection. But perhaps most worrying—and essential—of all is that by offering your critique, your insight, you give the other person permission to look closely at your teeth, to scrutinize those small blemishes blocking your beauty.
Perhaps you create a window into a world where we all can feel comfortable accompanying one another to our most beautiful selves. One toothpick at a time.
Perhaps you validate another’s deep desire to be thrust into the story, into the conversation, to be seen as worthy of having someone spend time inspecting their proverbial teeth.
At the end of the day, if I’m at a party, at a bar, at some social event, I can’t readily see my own teeth. I might be munching on some spanakopita and never realize that bite number one set me up for embarrassment. I can’t see myself clearly—at least, not at all times. Not without dashing into the bathroom or pulling up my phone to study my reflection in selfie mode.
But I can see you, if I take the time. I can offer you a suggestion, my input—flawed though it may be, humble. I can do that because I need you to return the favor, to look carefully at me and offer that same humble, caring gaze.
It’s not an opportunity to pontificate, to wax poetic about the vices and virtues we see in each other. Rather, it’s an invitation to spiritual companionship. I say to you what I perhaps hope to hear. What I yearn to hear: words that are a soothing balm, an anointment of my own badgered life.
Maybe you’ll return that favor. Maybe you will deign to speak those necessary words to me—with love, with compassion, with good humor. An invitation accepted.
So often we know what we need. We know where we fall and fail and what we require to get back up again. We’re not meant to give ourselves advice, though. We’re meant to receive it. To share it. To learn together.
And walk together.
And in that vulnerable places where we risk intimacy and rejection and words callously thrown, we find companions for the journey and those who might build with us a world where no one is left to wonder if there’s spinach stuck in their teeth. Where no one is left to wonder if anyone even cares to look closely enough to spy that wayward leafy green.