Every Easter, I sit in church and listen to the story of a death that didn't have the final word. A body broken. Three days of silence. And then — against everything that seemed logical, against everything the mourners had accepted as final — life. Restored. Whole. Purposeful. And every Easter, without fail, I think about teeth. I know, I know. Bear with me. When Something Looks Lost, It Often Isn't In my work as an endodontist — a root canal specialist — I see people at some
