It is Good Friday. Those of us who believe that Jesus is our Savior and Lord are reflecting today on His sacrifice and on our salvation, among other things, like who’s gonna make the deviled eggs for Easter dinner. 

I’m also remembering my dentist appointment from earlier this week. It was just the usual cleaning, a tooth spa experience, complete with a fancy freebie tooth brush and a new random appointment time that will fall smack dab in the middle of something important six months from now. 

The hygienist was the same one I’d had the last time around, which happened to be in October, right in the middle of figuring out that the thing I had growing in my left breast was actually cancer. 

Dental hygienists are about like hairdressers. They see all, they hear all, you can tell them all. They might as well be counselors, psychologists, and confidants wrapped up in one nice smiley, dental scrubs package. They have pretty teeth, and they usually smell good. Children and dogs love them.

I’ve never met a dental hygienist I didn’t like.

They’re great at conversation flow: they don’t give you too long to talk, with their fingers in your mouth and all, but there are plenty of little gaps of in-between time, after they’ve sucked out your spit, that are perfect for catching up on the weather, on the family, on the latest news.

My hygienist started first: “So what fun have you had lately?”

My answer: “Well, my family and I went to the mountains this weekend and I learned what a truck meet is.” 

My travelers and I first saw a lifted truck with an illuminated undercarriage and neon rims as we were traveling through Chattanooga. We continued to see them along the interstate. Is this a new Tennessee trend? A Rocky Top cybertruck? 

Oh no. When we arrived in Pigeon Forge at 1:00 am, now Saturday morning, the Maps app still showed a solid yellow line of traffic on the strip. Glowing trucks with license plates from all surrounding states were gathering at a Marathon gas station, which was also covered up with flashing blue police lights.

We got to experience the wee hours of the morning of the Spring Rod Run 2025.

It made for a better introduction than talking about the other things I’ve had going on for the last six months, but as hygienists have that “spill the tea” draw about them, I figured it was time to be honest.

“Wow,” she said, “you don’t look sick.”

Sick. I haven’t felt sick any of the time over the last six months, other than sick to my stomach at the unknown. The week before my surgery I ran ten miles, two sessions of five miles each. Running has a way of taking the nerves out of a mind and a body. 

Sick people aren’t supposed to run like that.

But by that point, the cancerous tissue had already been removed. My mastectomy was preventive. I hope never again to hear that I have a diagnosis of breast cancer.

The hygienist had her own bout with breast cancer eighteen years prior, when her only child was five years old. Hers was also caught early. She opted for radiation, and she’s had no recurrence.

We shared war stories. When you meet someone who’s been through a similar hardship, it’s an instant bond. It’s like trading buttons or pins at Girl Scout camp. You swap tales.

But we moved on quickly, and as I didn’t have much crud to scrape off my teeth, it wasn’t long before the dentist made his visit.

He had bad breath. Same as six months ago. He could take a lesson from his hygienists.

But my teeth are clean. The build-up is gone. It will come back though, so I will continue my twice annual official scrapings.

Might as well be like Easter and Christmas, the two times a year folks are gonna hit up the church house and maybe consider the state of their souls.

These twice yearly visits for some people act as their scouring, their tidying up, their maintenance. Protection against bad breath. It’s just an expectation to show up for your mom, and maybe for God, a time when the family can all get together and make a shiny portrait for social media.

I hope they at least brush their teeth twice daily, and hopefully floss too, regardless of the regularity of their church attendance, which tend to reflect daily habits.

I guess it all boils down to one question, regardless of how much you go to church. One of my favorite T-shirts has that famous I-65 billboard that travelers heading north from Montgomery have seen for at least the last forty years: “Go to Church or the Devil Will Get You!” 

It’s a funny shirt, one that usually gets smiles, but I hope it makes people think about more than stopping in Clanton to get a basket of peaches and some ice cream.

I hope it makes them want to go to church, truly I do. Whoever put up that billboard had good intentions, but then again, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I’ve known the devil to snag people both inside and outside of church. There are sick people there, on Easter, on Christmas, and every Sunday, just as well as the healed.

Church on its own ain’t gonna heal you.

You might not look sick, but I figure only you and the good Lord know for sure.

There’s only one Way to be healed, and it’s more than just preventive. 

It is permanent. 

It is Good Friday.

I hope you are thinking about more than deviled eggs.