Ignatius was walking to school the next morning, thinking about everything Samael had told him and wondering how he would find Simon Alva Ames with nothing more than a name, when he noticed an odd square of paper lying on the ground next to a waste bin. It caught his eye as he noticed the boldly printed black words on a white background: “ARE YOU READY TO MEET DEATH?” Realizing it was some kind of pamphlet, he picked it up, opened it and began to read:

It may come at the end of a long life, or it may come unexpectedly, but Death comes to all. As a chaplain, I have watched many breathe their last breath, and seen how they meet Death. Some go peacefully and gently as lambs. Others fight, clinging to life until the last. I have seen others go with bitter anguish and terror.

Ignatius had not seen his mother die, but he was told that she went peacefully. He continued reading:

What is the difference between those who pass out of this life with dignity, and those for whom the end is a misery? The answer, my friend, is in the human heart, wherein resides BLESSED FAITH in the efficacy of JESUS’ ATONEMENT.

Intending to read more later, Ignatius folded the brochure up and began to put it into his backpack, when he noticed printed on the back at the bottom of the page the words “Blessed Faith Ministry,” and underneath that, “The Rev. Simon A. Ames,” and an address: “Nineteen-Ninety-One South Aldrich Avenue, Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

The next day after school, Ignatius went in search of the address. He made his way down Aldrich Avenue, watching the house numbers on the odd side of the road. He reached Franklin Avenue, without seeing the number, so he turned around and walked back up the even side. Still, he could not find it, so he wandered up and down the street again, carefully checking each house number. He found Nineteen-Eighty-Five and Nineteen-Ninety-Seven, and stopped in between the two houses scratching his head and wondering. “This is a waste of time,” he thought, but he stood there anyway, as if waiting for the house to materialize out of thin air. It was then he noticed something gray and flat in the shadows behind a stand of trees and shrubs in between the two houses. He moved closer and stared, and slowly saw hidden in the recesses gray wooden slats, a picket fence, and shutters.

Nineteen-Ninety-One South Aldrich Avenue was there. It was tiny, really a cottage rather than a house. The trees and brush surrounding it were like a patch of primeval forest that had strangely managed to hold out against urban encroachments. Upon entering, one seemed to leave the city and enter a more primitive world. There was a small path leading to a front door, no porch and no steps, just a door. The gray paint on the siding was old and peeling, and the low roof was covered with fallen leaves. There were dense gray curtains pulled shut inside the windows. A small mailbox nailed to the siding next to the threshold bore the numbers “1991.” There was not a sign of movement or sound, so Ignatius wondered if anyone was home or could even possibly live here. But he summoned his courage, held his breath, and knocked.

There was no answer, and he wondered if he should not leave. But he waited and then knocked louder, and after the second knock, he heard a distinct scraping noise, and then footsteps. The door swung open, and a lanky old man emerged from the shadows. Ignatius imagined that if an old tree could become human, this man was what it might look like. His face was gnarly rather than wrinkly, not a trace of weakness in his features. His pate was mostly bald, except for a strip of white, stubbly hair that sprouted from his temples to the back of his head. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses hung precariously on the end of a beak-like nose, though the man didn’t seem to need them as he peered intently over them down at Ignatius. There was gravity and intent in his every movement and no wavering in his voice.

“Hello,” he said.

“Are you Reverend Ames?” Ignatius asked.

“I am,” he replied firmly but gently.

Ignatius thought he should say hello and introduce himself, but he only managed: “I was sent by an angel.”

“Well, come in then,” Reverend Ames replied, moving to the side of the doorway and waving Ignatius in.

The inside of the cottage was dark. No light escaped inside through the dense, gray window curtains, and a single lamp with a dim light bulb was the sole source of light in the one-room dwelling. The walls were covered with framed pictures of saints, heroes, and portraits of Jesus. The furniture was simple and rough hewn. In one corner was a small single bed, tidily made, with no pillow. A cross hung on the wall above the head, and a radiator stood next to the foot. In another corner was a gas stove, to the left of which was a wooden armoire serving both as pantry and cupboard. To the right was a short counter with a clean, empty sink. There was a squat bookshelf stuffed with books, and a small, wooden table, covered at the moment with papers, a few open tomes, and a half-empty mug of coffee. The only furniture for sitting were two wooden chairs next to the table.

Reverend Ames deliberately closed the books on the table and moved them into a single pile, and then gathered the papers into a stack which he tapped a couple of times on the table and placed next to the books. He pulled one of the chairs out, motioning to Ignatius to sit down. Then he then went to the cupboard, pulled out two glasses which he filled up with water from the sink. He returned to the table, placed one glass in front of Ignatius and the other next to himself, pulled the other chair out, and sat down.

After sitting, the reverend closed his eyes tight and his lips began to move rapidly as he muttered something to himself under his breath. Ignatius realized he was praying. Then he sighed suddenly and opened his eyes and looked intently at Ignatius.

“Well,” Reverend Ames said warmly, “tell me about yourself.”

After gathering Ignatius’ name, the reverend gradually put him at ease with simple questions about how old he was, where he was born, where he lived and went to school, whether he had any brothers or sisters, and what their names were. Ignatius answered the questions at first with terse words and phrases. But something about the reverend’s manner calmed Ignatius. The man had an intent, graceful way of asking questions without probing, and offering compliments or sympathy as simple statements. As Ignatius’ nervousness subsided, he began to volunteer information more freely.

When the reverend learned that Ignatius’ mother had died only two years ago, his eyes glistened. “I can’t know how hard that must have been for you,” he said, his voice inflecting softly. It was the first time, Ignatius realized, that another human being had spoken of his mother’s death, openly acknowledging the pain Ignatius had experienced. And it was also the first time he had seen a grown man show this kind of emotion. Ignatius struggled to hold back the sudden onrush of feelings, but his vision suddenly blurred and the tears spurted down his cheeks. “It’s all right,” the reverend said. He leaned forward in his chair and gave Ignatius a gentle hug across the corner of the table fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tears away.

“You are a remarkable young man,” Reverend Ames finally said, “How would you like to help me out in my ministry?”

“Help you out?” He should not have been astounded, he told himself, but Ignatius still marveled at how literally everything Samael had told him seemed to be coming true.

“For the last year I have been praying for God to send me a helper, and now you arrive at my doorstep saying an angel sent you.”

Ignatius opened his mouth to speak, but Reverend Ames hushed him. “That’s between you and God.”

Ignatius nodded. “I would like to help you.”

Reverend Ames gnarly face cracked into a great, wide grin. “I am so glad. So glad. Thanks be to God!” He squeezed Ignatius’ hands in his two knotty hands.

“How am I going to help you?” Ignatius asked nervously. Images from the lu stone were still swirling in his mind, and he wondered what kind of a minister this man might be.

“What time do you finish school?” asked the man.

“Three thirty,” replied Ignatius.

“Meet me at General Hospital tomorrow at four o’clock,” he said, “My office is on the fourth floor of the main building, near the nurses station.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Ignatius.

“We are going to minister to the sick and the dying.”

“All right,” said Ignatius. General Hospital was where his mother had died.

When Ignatius arrived at his office, before even saying hello, Reverend Ames closed the door and dragged a chair away from one of the walls toward the center of the room. He motioned toward the chair and said, “Sit down!” Ignatius, with a bit of apprehension, sat down, and the reverend stood behind him. Suddenly Ignatius felt a bit of a tingling sensation at the very top of his skull, something cool and wet. He instinctively jerked away, but Reverend Ames calmed him by patting him on the shoulder, and then laying hands on his head.

His hands felt heavy to Ignatius, but the warmth radiating from the reverend’s palms and the gentleness of the touch were soothing, almost hypnotic. The reverend began to pray, “Holy God: I am setting apart this boy, Ignatius, to an office of service, to assist me in the ministry thou hast given me. Lord, please pour down thine abundant gifts of the Spirit on him, to protect him from the assaults of the Evil One. Equip him with all the keys and gifts he needs to perform his office and grow in stature in thy service. In the name of thy holy son, Jesus Christ. AMEN!”

With the “AMEN!” he pressed down on Ignatius’ head and then released him, and Ignatius felt an unexpected shiver of elation. He touched the top of his head. The reverend had poured something on it that clung to the tips of his fingers and felt slippery as he rubbed it.

“What is that?” he asked.

“That is Anointing Oil,” smiled the reverend, “And you are now a Deacon.”

Ignatius met Reverend Ames at the hospital every weekday after school, except Thursday (which was the minister’s only day off). Ignatius decided not to tell his father. He preferred not to have to answer a lot of questions, and things seemed less complicated if he just kept it secret. He always managed to get home before his father returned from work, and when he didn’t he simply claimed to have been spending time with “a friend” (his father assumed to be from school).

After the anointing, the reverend insisted that Ignatius call him “Simon.” He would joke about his name. “It’s the same name as Jesus’ first apostle. He changed his name to Peter, but I’m not holy enough to do that yet.” When he laughed at his own jokes, he would let out a single, great, big, “HA!” It was usually the laugh itself and not the joke that made Ignatius smile. Ignatius rarely laughed, but it cheered the minister immensely to see a mirthful grin light up Ignatius’ cheeks, and then he would laugh again until he finally got a chuckle out of the boy.

Ignatius learned that Simon was not the kind of minister who was actually attached to a church. He was ordained a Baptist minister in Iowa in 1894. In the early years of his ministry he was a missionary to the Sioux Indians. Eventually, he became a military chaplain, and followed the American troops to France during the Great War. After he came back, he settled in Minneapolis and became an official chaplain at General Hospital. He had been there longer than any other chaplain in the hospital’s history. He told Ignatius that when people asked him why he did not find a more traditional ministry in a church, he would tell them, “The world is my church.” His office at the hospital was located next to the terminal ward, where the people whom the doctors had declared incurable went. That is where he spent most of his time, “helping them prepare,” he would say.

Simon explained to Ignatius, “You and I may not feel like we are doing much, and that’s because we’re not. We cannot lead souls to Christ. We are powerless to do that. That is the work of the Holy Spirit. But if we are willing to wait and be present, the Holy Spirit can work through us.

“In ten thousand moments of waiting, there will be a single moment of opportunity, one moment when the soul is ready to hear the call of God. If we are not patient and attentive, we’ll miss it. But if, when that moment arrives, we are open and ready, the Holy Spirit can act through us and lead the soul to Christ. And there is nothing more joyful to experience, and no greater reward in Heaven, than that through us another soul can be saved. But until then, we must wait.”

Maggie, a terminal ward patient, was the first woman Ignatius met. She was going into surgery later that afternoon. The nurses told them she had a fifty-fifty chance of surviving and that she had no family or friends. When Simon and Ignatius entered the room, she was lying on her side in her bed with her face to the wall. They pulled two chairs closer to her bedside and sat down in silence.

“Hello, Maggie,” said Simon gently.

“Hi, Father,” Maggie said, her voice thin and wavering. She listlessly turned over to face them. Her body under her hospital gown was skeletally thin. Her skin looked almost translucent. Ignatius could see the blue veins underneath. Her eyes were sunken, but they were big and bright, and she had a firm mouth and an aquiline nose.

Simon took her hand, bowed his head, and prayed close to her ear in whispers too low for Ignatius to hear. Ignatius watched Maggie nod her head and pray, “yes,” as a tear trickled down her cheek. Ignatius watched the clock ticking on the wall until it was time to leave.

Sometimes their visits were vigils like this one, but Ignatius was relieved to learn that more often they were simpler, chattier visits, where Simon and Ignatius found the patients in a variety of moods and would simply pass the time talking cheerfully with them. Ignatius performed many tasks for Simon that seemed insignificant to him, but which Simon apparently invested with great importance. “There is only one act that outweighs all the rest, and that is the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ on the cross,” he told Ignatius, “All the rest is the same in the eyes of God, the great acts as well as the least.” He sent Ignatius to fetch countless glasses of water from the nurses’ station, or occasionally, to fetch an actual nurse. Ignatius was also designated official timekeeper of the visits; Simon would lend his wristwatch to Ignatius and ask to be tapped on the back when it was time for the next visit. Sometimes Simon would read to patients from the Bible; Ignatius was expected to hold the heavy King James tome open in front of him. In fact, while they were on visitation in the hospital, Ignatius was charged with carrying a good many heavy things in Simon’s briefcase, whose contents, in addition to this big-print King James Bible, included a separate Concordance with Index, a thick, rubber-band-bound stack of pamphlets with a variety of titles (including the “Are You Ready to Meet Death?” title that had led Ignatius to Simon in the first place), a dense date book with notepad attached, a fasces-like bundle of pencils and pens bound with rubber bands, a box full of white handkerchiefs, and a glass vial containing the reverend’s supply of “anointing oil.”

The handkerchiefs were used to leave a blessing with the sick. When a patient was particularly distraught at the prospect of a visitation ending, Simon would pull out a handkerchief and pray over it and then encourage them to keep it close to their heart. This struck Ignatius as slightly bizarre, but Simon once showed Ignatius a passage in the Book of Acts describing how the Apostle Paul blessed handkerchiefs giving them the property of driving out sickness and evil spirits. Simon used the anointing oil in a variety of situations, whenever a patient requested an especially potent blessing. Ignatius would watch him pour a few drops out of the vial onto the crown of the sick person’s head, or dab some on the tip of his index finger and then draw the sign of the cross with it on the person’s forehead. It was just plain olive oil, Simon explained, the best and most pure he could find, blessed for anointing.

Every once in a while, Ignatius would learn that someone they had recently prayed with or blessed was gone. The bed was empty, or someone new was there. Usually with the patients they visited in the general wards, this meant that they had gotten well enough to leave and go home or had been transferred to another specialty ward. But in the terminal ward, it usually meant only one thing.

“Your mother was a good woman,” Simon said out of the blue one day, “She cared about you very much.”

His words stopped Ignatius cold. “You remember my mother?”

“I remember everyone who passes through this ward,” he replied, “It took me a while because you’ve changed so much, but I remember you too. Why didn’t you tell me this is where your mother died?”

“I don’t know,” Ignatius said, “It’s still hard for me to talk about, I guess.”

“Back then you were like a scared rabbit, trying not to be seen. You were always hiding behind an older sister, or an aunt. Of course you were physically less mature then. But that isn’t why I almost didn’t recognize you. There’s a light in your eyes now that wasn’t there before, a strength.”

“I remember you too,” Ignatius smiled, “I was frightened of you.”

Simon laughed: “HA!” He mussed Ignatius’ hair and gave him a bear hug. “You have come a long road since then, haven’t you?”

“I guess I have,” smiled Ignatius. Then he grew suddenly more serious, like the water on a lake when the wind stops blowing. “Tell me more about my mother,” he said.

Simon paused thoughtfully before answering his question. “There are two kinds of people who come through here, those who need strength, and those who have strength to give. Your mother was one of the last. She lifted the spirits of everyone around her. She lifted my spirits.” He sighed. “She was a Christian woman,” said Simon finally, “There’s nothing more need be said. When the end came, she was ready.”

“How could you tell?” asked Ignatius.

Simon replied, “When you see someone go who is not ready, you will know.”