The road to the dentist is paved with good intentions.

I was grinding my teeth. I’m not sure what caused my abrasive mastication. Perhaps I was envisioning an encounter with an irritating co-worker; or, perhaps I was reliving a long wait at the doctor’s office. Whatever was going on, I was asleep; and I squeaked.

That was my wife’s claim. “Squeaky, Squeaky, all night long,” she said pointing to my choppers. “You grind your teeth.”

I knew I ground but was a little shocked at the squeaking. Surely that could not be good for my teeth. I decided to visit the dentist. He might be able to suggest some sort of mouth guard to preserve my teeth for a few more years.

The dentist’s office smelled like a dentist’s office. You know that awful scent of fluoride mixed with bubble gum mixed with the hot dry smell that can only be burnt enamel. The waiting room was further scented with fear as we patients considered our likely fate.

A little girl in the next seat tried desperately to convince her mother that she was fine and didn’t need a check-up. I felt the same way but my mom was no where around for me to argue with. I had decided to come to Doc Tooth’s Torture Fun House on my own. I sat and contemplated my feet wondering if I could convince them that I was ok and leaving was a better option.

My last trip to Doc Tooth had been several years before when my wisdom teeth needed pulling. They were hurting me; so I found Doc and asked for help. He was happy to oblige.

His grin was devilish as he said, “Most dentists would send this out to a dental surgeon, but me, I like pulling wisdom teeth. You know, I played football in college, so I’ve got the upper body strength to yank them right out.”

He leaned me back, put his knee on my chest and said, “Open wide!”

The device went in and the pressure on my chest increased. Doc wrapped both hands around the handle to get a stronger grip. Crack! Crack! Crack! The sound exploded from my mouth as my head jerked to and fro. Another one of those Faustian grins lit up Doc’s face as he pulled the bloody molar from my mouth.

“One More to go!” He exclaimed and dove back in.

Now I was back and re-living that wonderful memory. A door opened and a perky young sadist poked her head out and said, “Mr. Coussens.” She grinned and waved me in.

The condemned followed her to her chair, a torture device for the ages. She poked me, prodded me, and put sharp sticks in my mouth pretending them to be x-ray film. “Bit down on this,” she smiled, and I felt the cardboard slice into my gums. Finally, she had exhausted the immediate torture tools and announced, “Doc Tooth will see you in a moment.”

Have you ever noticed that the dentist office is a bit like a car repair shop? No matter what you go in for, they still want to lube your chassis and replace your pads. If you’re really unlucky they will have found a cavity, or six.

The hygienist came back and said, “Doc will be a few more moments, but I need to talk to you. You need a good cleaning and your gums are looking bad, we need to irrigate them.”

I rubbed my x-ray tormented jaw and said, “My gums are already pretty irritated, you really don’t need to do more.” Then I grinned to show that I wasn’t afraid of her.

She frowned back at me, “Irrigate, Mr. Coussens. It’s not covered by your insurance, but it’s very important.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

I had not yet learned my car lesson, “Will my wheels actually fall off or my engine blow up? If not it can wait.” Lacking that experience, I nodded dumbly at her.

Doc Tooth came in shortly after. He poked, prodded, and scratched. Then he said, “Well there are a few spots to watch, but no procedures today.” Pausing a moment he tried to cheer me up. “At least you’re not in pain.”

The pain was yet to come. After the cleaning and the irrigating I was ready to weep. When I saw the bill my eyes actually welled with tears. Later that night, I realized I had forgotten to ask the doctor about the teeth grinding. I think I’ll wait quite a while to get that solved.

Something in this experience did strike a note with me. Tooth cleaning is one thing; but heart cleaning is another. Each day we have an opportunity to meet with Doc Heart, whose real name is Jesus, and have him look us over. Mother isn’t there to prompt us; we have to go on our own. It can be painful. It can be more costly than we anticipated when we sat down in the chair. In the end though, we come out white and shining. Our smile is brighter. Our heart is lighter. Our lives are made whole.