He was irascible and opinionated. A real handful. And because he was a patient, great patience was required.
I probed gently, pools of blood welling up as my instrument advanced through his mouth. "Dr. Smith*, you have a lot of calculus under the gum line. The good news is, your x-rays indicate we may be able to turn your periodontal disease around. I will need to see you for four deep-cleaning appointments, though."
He grumbled, and I sighed. Four one-hour appointments with this crotchety fellow were going to be a challenge. "Help, LORD!" I silently pleaded.
I was a new Believer, having come to the LORD a few weeks earlier in October of 1984, and my newfound joy and enthusiasm could not be contained. I radiated Jesus, and with the Holy-days fast approaching, my smile often lit up the room. I know this because Dr. Smith told me.
Midway through his first treatment, he suddenly asked, "You're not expecting, are you?"
I sat back and stared at him. "Not that I know of. Why?"
"You're glowing," he said accusingly. A few minutes later, he pushed my hands aside. "Why are you so darn happy all the time, anyway?"
I smiled and took that opportunity to share the miraculous story of my recent salvation. Dr. Smith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but his eyes remained fixed on mine as I talked.
"I'm glad that worked out for you," he remarked afterward.
Soon into his second appointment, Dr. Smith impatiently gestured for me to stop. "What did you do to get saved?" he queried.
I set my instruments down and reflected.
"I told the LORD I was sorry for the wrong things I had done, I knew I couldn't get into heaven by doing good things, I believed his Son Jesus died on the cross for my sins, and I wanted to give my life to Him."
He was silent for a moment. "That's it?"
I nodded.
Tears glinted in his eyes, but he said nothing.
"Rinse, please," I said with a smile.
We were making progress, quadrant by quadrant, but he was still not healing well. "Dr. Smith, I am doing everything I can to help you, but you are not flossing and brushing every day like I showed you."
He retorted, "Look, kid. Cleaning my teeth is YOUR job, not mine." Then, as if to soften his words, he patted my knee.
Thanksgiving arrived before our third appointment. By the time I saw Dr. Smith again, Christmas was just around the corner, and I was overjoyed at the prospect of decorating a freshly-cut, ten-foot-tall Frasier fir tree. My husband and I had begun collecting ornaments two years earlier, and I was enthusiastic about my new hobby.
Dr. Smith asked me to describe the ornaments to him, so I did. Our collection was eclectic: glass, brass, silver, gold, wood, and the occasional Hallmark. No two ornaments were alike, and some were artisan originals.
We chatted easily until our session was over. I scheduled his fourth and final appointment and handed him a card. For the first time, Dr. Smith gave me a hug and thanked me. "Merry Christmas!" he called back with a wave as he walked down the hall. "See you soon!"
The next afternoon my employer stepped into the operatory. "Kay," he said sadly, "I am sorry to tell you this, but Dr. Smith passed away in his sleep last night."
My heart was broken. I was fond of my new friend. Dr. Smith seemed resistant to the Light, and yet... "LORD," I prayed, "I hope our talks helped and he is safe with You now."
I thought of Dr. Smith often during Advent. Then one morning, our receptionist walked into my operatory carrying a package. "Dr. Smith's wife was just here. She left this for you but didn't stay. She was crying," she said, puzzled.
I rose. What on earth?
Carefully nestled inside a presentation box were three amber ornaments. But they were not just any ornaments. They were Strini blown glass replicas from the Smithsonian Hall of Trees in Washington, DC. Tears welled up in my eyes as I read the accompanying card:
"For Kay from Dr. Smith. Merry Christmas!"
Decades have passed since I opened that package. At one point, I had amassed crates of Christmas ornaments and would decorate multiple trees over the course of many days. Now I am downsizing and gradually giving away pieces from my collection. I linger over each one, remembering its story.
No ornaments are more precious to me than these three, however. Two will find their way to new homes this year, but I will keep one of them on my small wall tree until it's finally my turn to go home.
Yes, Dr. Smith. I remember.
See you soon.
Kay Seibert O'Hara
December 1, 2020
*not his real name
