"For a small fee, I can say a prayer of some kind."rn"No thank you, Father."rn"Do you have any metal plates in your skull?"rn"No, Father."rnThe blessing takes place in the hallowed small room at the back of the church. It was once a ministers office. The supplicant sits with his spotted pate bowed, baseball cap resting across his thighs. Quietly gratefulrnfor the end of a long day, Father Lin applies the wand to the old man's head. He traces the motions of redemption and bliss: tight circles above the right ear.rn"Aaaahhh..."rnThe old man slumps back in the armchair. Father Lin relaxes. There's always a danger that instead of the gentle, kind god advertised and sold by the church, its vengeful Old Testament twin will show up. That happens quite rarely, always by accident, but not - thank goodness -today.rnThe old man snuffles back tears, fitting the baseball cap on his head. "Thank you, Father." He pulls Father Lin into a hug; church rules oblige him to reciprocate. Holding the man and patting his back, staring over the cap's stiff bill into an Oakland Athletics logo, Lin contemplates using the wand on himself. The end of the week means no one to talk to, no one to pull him into the unwanted hug which, by the end of his day off, he always longs for again.
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