My dentist retired a couple of months ago. His replacement is a young man with dark skin, long hair and a red bandanna tied at the nape of his neck.
            “How many crowns have you replaced so far?” I mumble through a wad of gauze crammed between my left cheek and upper gum.
            “This is my first one.” He flashes a smile. “Just kidding, Father. I’ve been at this for three years.”
            I take a deep breath and brace for the sting of needle. Soon, I feel the vibration of a miniature jackhammer at the back of my mouth.  Throughout the ordeal, the young dentist is sympathetic and reassuring. When he returns my chair returned to an upright position, we engage in small talk. I try my best not to slur my words like a drunk at some bar.
            I note that he has an uncommon name. “What is your nationality?” I ask.
            “Iraqi,” he replies.
            I nod and presume he is Muslim.
            The following week I return to the office to be fitted with a new crown. This time, the young dentist is wearing a gold chain with a small cross around his neck.
            “Before we start,” he says, “I have a personal question: If you had one book to recommend for my Lenten reading, what would it be?”
            “You’re Catholic?”
            “My family comes from Chaldea.”
            “No kidding?”  
            I’m beside myself. Chaldea was the site of one of the earliest Councils of the Church. His ancestors were Christian when mine were still worshipping oak trees and bull frogs!
            He tilts my chair back and begins to fit my crown. I pay no attention to the dental endeavor taking place in my mouth. All I can think about is the two of us, with such different ancestries, sharing a common faith in the one, true Church.
 As I leave the office, I suggest some titles for his Lenten reading. Pulling onto the street, I suspect I’ll be thinking of him each time I recite the Creed at Mass from now until Easter and, perhaps, even to my annual checkup.