Our Lady of the Snows

Rumors that Our Lady of the Snows would close had haunted its congregation for years. The northern Minnesota parish had always struggled, but then things went from bad to worse. The area’s largest taconite plant laid off half of its force. The paper mill in Lost River shut down and took its operations out of state. Many of the younger members of the parish moved away to find jobs, leaving behind a dwindling congregation of aging poor.

For the first time in its history the small parish had to draw on its reserves to cover payroll shortfalls and help pay its bills. To cut heating costs during the long winters, the thermostat was turned way down. The air in the sanctuary was so nippy that worshippers kept their hats and coats on during the service, removing them only briefly when they went to kneel at the Communion railing. Mercifully, Father James kept his sermons short, and swiftly conducted the Eucharist and the rest of the liturgy.

Our Lady of the Snows and Father James went back a long way. He took over as parish priest when the original church built by the Benedictine Fathers was destroyed by fire. For twenty-five years Father James did what it took to keep his tiny parish going. He went without insurance and retirement benefits. He solicited donations door to door. He volunteered his time when the church needed a new coat of paint; he cut the grass and shoveled snow. He asked his parishioners not to lose faith: “The very survival of our church depends on it.”

But the recent hardships forced upon the congregation took their toll. Fewer and fewer parishioners showed up at the fundraisers. Church attendance dropped off. A mere fifty came to perform their Easter Duty.

It was just about this time that Dylan Feagin showed up in Lost River. He arrived in a rusted-out Volkswagen van with two large sunflowers painted on the doors and with a bumper sticker that read, GOD IS A VEGAN. He was about forty, skinny, had chopped red hair, and wore little oval glasses. He rented a room in the house of Zita Metzer. Zita was a hairdresser, sort of. She curled old ladies’ hair on Saturday mornings.

It was quickly established that the stranger was not related to the Feagins who owned the hardware store, or to anyone else for that matter. There were intimations of a troubled past: Vietnam veteran unable to cope, a ruined marriage, unpaid debts, drugs. As to why he was renting a room in the boondocks of northern Minnesota, conjecture solidified into two opinions. One group maintained that he needed the peace and quiet to convalesce and get back on his feet. Another faction argued that he was fleeing the police for dealing drugs. “He’s so skinny because he’s a drug addict,” declared a cashier at the credit union. There was a strong suspicion among members of this camp that he was growing marijuana plants or worse in Zita’s garden.

This much was known for sure. Dylan Feagin had moved around a lot: Florida, California, and Belize—twice. He had a master’s degree in philosophy and a recently expired real estate license. He got a monthly disability check from the military for five hundred dollars. His room contained three pieces of furniture: an antique pole lamp with red tassels hanging from the shade; a small orange Formica table with cigarette burns; and a chaise set up near the window, which doubled as a reading chair and a bed, where Dylan often fell asleep fully clothed and with all the lights on.

His daily habits, thanks to Zita’s snooping, were common knowledge. He lived on a diet of lentils, avocadoes, green tea, and basmati rice, which he prepared in a rice cooker. Twice a day he took an herbal preparation of milk thistle and hawthorn berry. At six every morning he would stand on his head against the wall for twenty minutes. After breakfast he would light a candle and a stick of incense. Dressed in a Japanese robe, he...