How a Dentist Appointment (and a Wet Dough) Brought Me Back to Tefillin
The first time I intentionally skipped Tefillin was 2 days after my Bar Mitzvah…
…In August 2023, I finally went to the dentist for the first time in over five years. Between COVID and moving across the country twice, it just hadn’t happened. But the visit surprised me. The dentist was warm, easy to talk to, and the whole experience felt better than I expected. We ended up schmoozing during the cleaning, and afterward she told me how jealous she was of that clean-mouth feeling. I walked out thinking, this was actually kind of great. I decided I’d start going regularly.
The next time I went, she was gone. A new dentist came in after the cleaning. Right away, I didn’t love the vibe. He was already recommending extra work, even though the hygienist had just said it didn’t seem necessary right now. It was our first time meeting. It felt pushy.
I gave it another try at my next cleaning, hoping maybe I was just being picky. But the feeling was still off. Something in me knew this wasn’t the right fit.
While searching online, I came across the name Dr. Yehuda. I recognized the last name, he’s my friend Shlomo’s brother. Something about that connection, maybe the way Shlomo’s music always felt touched by something higher, made it feel like a quiet sign. Like I was being guided.
I called the office that Wednesday. They told me someone had just canceled for the next afternoon. I booked it.
From the moment I walked in, it felt right. The staff was warm. The space felt calm. During the cleaning, the hygienist mentioned her grandson doing Bar Mitzvah lessons via Zoom. It was just a passing comment, but it landed.
Toward the end of the cleaning, as she put the water sprayer in my mouth for a rinse, she joked, “I’ve never had anyone drown in this chair, but if you feel like you’re drowning, raise your left hand.”
I laughed, but the line stuck with me.
I went home and got to work on my weekly sourdough. I was distracted and rushing, and I completely messed up the measurements. The dough was way too wet. I thought maybe it was just the new brand of flour. A couple hours later, once I finally slowed down and got centered, I realized I had just left out a huge chunk of flour.
I added more and did what I could to fix it. It still came out pretty good, just slightly overproofed and a bit moist. Not what I planned, but it worked.
Thinking about it over Shabbos, it all clicked.
That line from the dentist’s chair. The dough. The feeling of drowning.
What’s the only thing in Judaism we’re told to do with our left hand? Tefillin.
I had been feeling scattered lately. Like I was floating without direction. And here were all these little moments pointing me back to something simple. Something grounding.
This past Sunday morning, I went to shul and wrapped Tefillin for the first time in a long time. Just because I wanted to.
The next time I went, she was gone. A new dentist came in after the cleaning. Right away, I didn’t love the vibe. He was already recommending extra work, even though the hygienist had just said it didn’t seem necessary right now. It was our first time meeting. It felt pushy.
I gave it another try at my next cleaning, hoping maybe I was just being picky. But the feeling was still off. Something in me knew this wasn’t the right fit.
Fast forward to this spring, I had a cleaning scheduled for Tuesday, May 6, and had been meaning to cancel and find a new place, but just never got around to it.
Then on Monday, I got a call that the hygienist was taking a sick day and they had to cancel my appointment. I didn’t feel frustrated. It felt like a quiet push. Time to find something new.
While searching online, I came across the name Dr. Yehuda. I recognized the last name, he’s my friend Shlomo’s brother. Something about that connection, maybe the way Shlomo’s music always felt touched by something higher, made it feel like a quiet sign. Like I was being guided.
I called the office that Wednesday. They told me someone had just canceled for the next afternoon. I booked it.
From the moment I walked in, it felt right. The staff was warm. The space felt calm. During the cleaning, the hygienist mentioned her grandson doing Bar Mitzvah lessons via Zoom. It was just a passing comment, but it landed.
Toward the end of the cleaning, as she put the water sprayer in my mouth for a rinse, she joked, “I’ve never had anyone drown in this chair, but if you feel like you’re drowning, raise your left hand.”
I laughed, but the line stuck with me.
I went home and got to work on my weekly sourdough. I was distracted and rushing, and I completely messed up the measurements. The dough was way too wet. I thought maybe it was just the new brand of flour. A couple hours later, once I finally slowed down and got centered, I realized I had just left out a huge chunk of flour.
I added more and did what I could to fix it. It still came out pretty good, just slightly overproofed and a bit moist. Not what I planned, but it worked.
Thinking about it over Shabbos, it all clicked.
That line from the dentist’s chair. The dough. The feeling of drowning.
What’s the only thing in Judaism we’re told to do with our left hand? Tefillin.
I had been feeling scattered lately. Like I was floating without direction. And here were all these little moments pointing me back to something simple. Something grounding.
This past Sunday morning, I went to shul and wrapped Tefillin for the first time in a long time. Just because I wanted to.
Since then, I’ve been doing it each day at home. Just a few minutes. Just me and God.
It feels good. It feels honest. It feels like exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
Funny how sometimes the breakthrough you need doesn’t come from a deep conversation or someone pushing you to do things just because it works for them.
Sometimes it’s a canceled appointment, a little joke, and a bowl of sticky dough.
היום שישה ימים, שהם לא רק לעומר