The Long Frost

The morning sun glanced off the stone steps of St. John Vianney Parish, catching on the half-painted railing that had been started three months ago and never finished. Fr. Anton Brusk strode across the churchyard, his heavy frame commanding attention, his pale blue eyes cutting from one detail to the next. He stopped by the statue of the Virgin, scowled, and pointed to the weeds curling around her feet.

“Those should have been cleared yesterday,” he said sharply to a volunteer. Without waiting for a reply, he moved on, noting the peeling paint on the outer fence, the cracked corner of a retaining wall, the gutters sagging from last week’s storm. His hands stayed clasped behind his back, as if he were inspecting troops on parade.

From the street, the parish looked immaculate — tidy hedges, shining doors, a proud façade. But step past the surface, and the illusion faltered like a TV with spotty reception: scaffolding leaned against the parish hall, tools lay rusting in a pile, a fountain basin sat empty, still waiting for the plumbing Brusk had promised two Easters ago. Projects began under his orders, but seldom ended.

“Father,” a voice called. An elderly woman, her shawl wrapped tight against the morning chill, sat on a bench in the courtyard. Her eyes were red from crying. “Could you… could you sit with me, just for a little while?”

Brusk paused, considering it.  His mind flashed to a church full of friends and family.  He quickly shook his head, trying to shake it from his thoughts.  He glanced at her, then at the chipped base of the statue beside him. “Not now. I’ll find time later,” he said finally. “The stonework here needs repair before Sunday.” He ran his thick fingers along the crack, muttered about costs, and walked on. The woman lowered her gaze to her lap, her hands trembling around a rosary.

Behind him, two volunteers whispered as they stacked chairs.
“He keeps the place looking good.”
“Good? Half the jobs are never finished.”
“Yes, well… same with people.”

That Sunday, the pews filled with families, retirees, workers in jeans and flannel. Brusk mounted the pulpit of St. John Vianney Parish like an officer briefing his men. His voice was steady, commanding, the clipped precision of a man who never wasted words.  His diction was such you could swear he swallowed a word a day calendar in his youth.

“The eschatological horizon,” he declared, “is the inevitable outworking of Heidegger’s anxiety before Being — as Karl Rahner rearticulated, though inadequately, and as von Balthasar pressed more forcefully.”

Mothers hushed children, laborers blinked, an old woman drifted toward sleep. The words sailed above them like cold winds over their heads. Brusk did not notice. He drew the homily to its close with the same brisk cadence he used on the church steps: “And so, my friends, we must transcend mere immanence and embrace the eschatological horizon.  As the Bridegroom waits for his Bride…” his voice caught in his throat.  He cleared it, and continued, “Well, let us inculcate the eschatological reality.”

Silence. A few polite nods. Someone murmured, “Amen.”

After Mass, a middle-aged man in work boots stopped him at the door. “Thought-provoking sermon, Father.” The words were offered like a peace token, polite but empty. Another parishioner, out on the steps, muttered under her breath, “I’d rather hear how to get to Heaven than that…scatological… whatever!”

Brusk overheard. He didn’t flinch. He only muttered back, “They should read more,” and straightened his collar as if that settled the matter.

Fr. Anton Brusk sat across from his bishop, his broad shoulders squared, his pale eyes steady as stone. The office was warm, sun cutting across shelves of files and framed certificates, but Anton seemed carved from something colder.

“You’ve done much at St. John Vianney,” the bishop said carefully, fingers steepled. “The parish is orderly. The books are balanced. But…” His words hesitated. “I worry you’ve been carrying too much, Father. Perhaps it’s time for a change of pace.”

Anton bristled. “The work gets done. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes, the work gets done,” the bishop repeated, softer this time. “But sometimes, Father, the work is not the people.” He cleared his throat and slid a folded letter across the desk. “There’s a mission parish in Ketchikan, Alaska. Small, struggling, in need of help for a season. I’d like you to go.”

Anton unfolded the letter with thick, calloused fingers. The words blurred briefly, but he caught enough: temporary assignment… St. Mary’s Mission… Ketchikan.

His jaw tightened. “I’ve work here unfinished.”

“You’ll find work there too,” the bishop replied, with a trace of finality. “Go. Rest. Help them where you can.  Remember what it’s like to be a father.”

The plane descended through a low blanket of gray clouds, Ketchikan spilling into view like a painting rendered in muted strokes: mountains rising jagged, waters glinting dark steel, and wooden houses clinging to the shoreline like barnacles. Snow threaded the trees and roofs, softening edges but not disguising the weather-worn sag of things.

Anton stepped off the small plane and into a sharp, briny wind that cut through his clerics. He pulled his greca tighter, scanning the modest terminal. A handful of parishioners had come to greet him, their smiles warm, their hands reaching for his.

“Father Brusk? Welcome!” An older man in a patched wool cap threw open his arms wide and engulfed Brask in a tight bearhug with surprising strength. “We’re so glad you’ve come.  My name is Thomas, I’m maintenance.  And this is my wife, Sandy.  Parish Secretary”  He winced at this assumption of familiarity.  

Beside him, a woman pressed a paper bag into Anton’s arms. “Fresh bread — still warm. Thought you might want something after the flight.”

Anton nodded curtly, muttered, “Thank you, Sandy.  Thomas” and adjusted the strap of his worn leather satchel. Their warmth disoriented him. At St. John Vianney, greetings were polite, measured, sometimes distant. Here, their eyes shone as if he were family.

St. Mary’s Mission leaned crookedly against the wind at the edge of town. The paint was peeling, boards warped with damp, the bell tower tilting a few degrees as though bowing under the weight of snow. Inside, the plaster walls bore water stains, pews wobbled on uneven legs, and the draft whistled through cracked panes.

Anton frowned at once. “This will take weeks to repair.” He traced a hand along the splintered rail of a pew, already calculating costs, materials, labor.  He started making a mental checklist of projects to start.

But before he could note more flaws, a young girl darted past him, laughter spilling as she chased her brother down the aisle.  He saw a happy family in his mind’s eye.  A woman with tired eyes caught his arm gently. “Don’t mind the walls, Father. What matters is we’re together.” Her smile was tired but radiant. “You’ll see. The people make this place beautiful.”

Anton said nothing. He looked around again, seeing only decay. Yet everywhere he turned, faces glowed with warmth, joy ringing even in the broken space. They lingered to talk, to invite him to their homes, to ask him to share meals. He deflected them, muttering about repairs, about paint and roof shingles.

That night, long after the parishioners had left, Anton sat alone in the drafty chapel. He rubbed his temple, staring at the cracked plaster near the altar. A cold wind pressed against the windows.  He checked his watch; 2059 hours.  One minute before he could start compline and begin his nighttime bed routine.

And in the last pew, he thought he saw movement: a small figure, silent, watching. A child, bundled in furs so old they belonged to another age. Anton blinked, and the pew was empty.  He walked over to investigate but all he found was the faint outline of two small shoe prints made from melting snow on the cold, stone floor.  He swore it looked like a veil slowly dissolving.  

The next morning Anton woke confused in the darkness.  At first he thought he woke up earlier than usual but when he looked over at the clock on his nightstand he realized it was just the long nights of winter in this part of the world.  He groaned and sat up in bed, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes.  He looked at the clock again and saw the time, “37 minutes until lauds” he muttered to himself.  Making a bee line to the shower, he set about to prepare for the day, determined to get this chapel in respectable order.

He walked tall and proud through the obviously well used chapel.  He made note after mental note of all the repairs that he would need to start in his time here in this new purgatory.  

It wasn’t long before the distractions to his work came.

“Morning, Father!” A man in his fifties shuffled in, boots scuffed with salt, carrying a thermos. “Thought you could use some coffee. Best in town, keeps the cold off.”

Anton looked up briefly. “Thank you. Leave it by the sacristy door.” He returned to his notes before the man could say more.

A young mother entered next, a baby strapped to her chest, a little boy tugging her sleeve. She smiled shyly. “Father, I know the roof leaks, but the children were hoping you’d bless the nativity set before Advent begins.”

Anton glanced at the wooden figures, chipped and faded, tucked on a side table. “Later,” he said flatly. “First the roof. Otherwise the plaster will ruin more than your manger.” The boy’s eager grin faded, and the family slipped quietly out.

By midday, an elderly woman appeared, shawl wrapped tight, carrying a basket of steaming rolls. She set them on a pew and folded her hands. “We’d be honored if you came by our home for supper tonight. My husband would love to share his stories of the fishing boats.”
Anton did not look up from where he was inspecting a cracked window frame. “I’ll eat here,” he said. “Work must be done.”

The woman bowed her head gently. “The work is always here, Father. People may not always be.” Her words hung like incense in the cold air, but Anton brushed them away and wrote “replace glass” on his pad.

He turned toward the sanctuary to jot another note when he saw her. A girl — maybe fourteen — standing barefoot on the stone floor, a shock in this frozen land. Her dress was plain, patched, but her eyes… her eyes held a light he hadn’t seen in decades. Not the pale blue cold of his own, but a warmth, like candles on a winter night.

She said nothing at first, only smiled as if she’d been waiting. Then softly, with the unselfconscious clarity of youth:
“Father, why don’t you sit?”

The words were simple, but they landed differently. He found himself frozen, not by the cold, but by the strange weight of her presence. Her aura unsettled him, as if she saw past his notes, his routines, his defenses. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came. For the first time in years, Fr. Anton Brusk was at a loss for words.

He found his body obeying her invite to sit.

“Why do you focus so much on exteriors?” It was a simple, innocent question.  The question hit him like a freight train and for the first time in a long time, he struggled for an answer.

“Work has to be done, so I do it” was all he could stammer out.  

“The outside is easier than fixing what’s inside” the Child replied, not accusingly but softly, almost sympathetically.  

Who is she? Anton thought to himself.  She continued.

“The frost teaches us a lot of things.  It teaches us strength, how to be disciplined when food is scarce.  It also teaches us to be resolute, solid in hardship.  Some people take this too far.  Some people in the face of hardship never move on but instead let the frost freeze them in place.”

Her eyes pierced his own, like she could read his very heart.  Her words hit him like a cold wind when you open the door in a snow storm.  He wanted to get away from this little girl.

“Little girl, I don’t know what you think you are talking about but I assure you I take my responsibilities very seriou-”

“Head north.  If you are ready to break the ice within you, you will do it north.”  She stood and made to leave.  She looked back, brown eyes boring into his cold blue, “Remember what it means to be a father”.  With that she left, leaving Anton feeling very cold indeed.

“Father, where do you think you’re going?  You’ll die of cold out there!” It was Thomas, the maintenance man, his wool cap pulled low against the wind. He stood in the threshold, eyes wide with concern.

Anton blinked, as if waking from a trance. The December air knifed across his cheeks, sharp enough to sting. His mind scrambled for an excuse, something practical: check the roof, inspect the grounds, look for supplies. But the words of the Child still hung in his ears: Head north.

“I… I just need to see something,” he muttered. His voice sounded strange, even to himself.

Thomas shook his head firmly. “Nothing to see but ice and darkness that way. Stay. Come to supper with us instead. Warm food, company — that’s what you need.”

But Anton’s pale eyes drifted beyond him, to the treeline where snow fell thick and silent. For the first time in years, the priest who never left a task unfinished felt compelled by something he couldn’t name, something older than duty.

He stepped past Thomas into the cold.

The snow swallowed his steps almost at once.  It was eerie how silent it was out here.  Only the occasional whine of wind and the crunch crunch crunch of his shoes on snow, like a pair of footsteps on dried rice kept him company. Beyond the mission, the trail narrowed into white silence, hemmed in by spruce bowing under their frozen crowns. The December air knifed into his lungs, each breath ragged and stinging. He was no outdoorsman — too stocky, too soft from years of rectory meals and short walks from sacristy to altar.  He liked to play in the dirt, but this was different.  This wasn’t recreation; it was survival.  

By afternoon, his legs ached from trudging through drifts, his boots heavy with wet cold. The bread Sandy had given him was hard with frost, but he chewed it anyway, jaw tight, forcing each swallow. He refused to turn back.

That night he found shelter beneath a leaning pine, its boughs thick with snow. He huddled in his greca, teeth chattering, muttering psalms under his breath — words he had spoken a thousand times at the altar, now thin against the weight of the wilderness. 

On the second day, the cold began to play tricks. Shapes blurred in the drifting white: his bishop, fingers steepled; the elderly woman from the courtyard, rosary trembling in her hands; the laughing children of Ketchikan running across the pews. He even saw ghostly apparitions of wedding dresses in the drifting snow.  Each time he reached out, they dissolved into wind and chill.

By midday, the sun dimmed to a pale disk and the sky lowered, crushing. He stumbled often, knees biting against ice, palms raw where he braced his falls. Once, lying face-first in the drift, he almost stayed there, letting the frost claim him. Perhaps that was what the Child meant. Perhaps surrender was simply not rising again.

But always her voice pressed through the gale: Head north.  Remember what it means to be a father.

That night, the wind screamed. He dreamt of the church doors swinging open to the winter air, the congregation turning in pity as he stood alone. He woke, shivering, his collar stiff with ice.

On the third day, the forest broke into open tundra. Nothing but white stretching endless. The silence was so complete he could hear his own heart, thudding slow and uneven. He whispered aloud, voice swallowed by the snow:

“Why did she leave?”

The admission startled him. It sounded less like a complaint and more a confession.

And then, through the haze of snow-blindness, a glow shimmered faintly ahead — pale and steady. He staggered toward it, limbs half-dead, until the shape resolved:

A confessional of ice and snow, sharp as glass almost cutting into his reality, gleaming like a cathedral built by frost itself.

And beside it, waiting barefoot, stood the little girl from before.

He approached her and collapsed to his knees, weak from hunger and physical exhaustion.

“I see you found your way here.  Congratulations.  Not many make it to this Toll Booth” the girl said with a half smile.

Anton breathed heavily, trying to regain composure and make sense of where he was and what he was seeing, “What is this? It…it looks almost like a confessional”.

“A confessional?  Interesting.  It shows itself based on the viewer.  Perhaps you have something weighing you down you need to relinquish”.  

Anton’s breath hung in the frozen air like incense. His knees dug into the snow, but he hardly felt them. The ice-confessional loomed before him, edges glittering cruelly.

“What… what does it want?” he whispered, eyes fixed on the faint light within.

The Still Child tilted her head, as if the question puzzled her.
“It doesn’t want. It only reveals. The price is always shown. Whether you pay it — that is yours.”

The frost-veined panel of the Diviner flickered awake. No destination, no map. Only white. And then, slowly, words formed across the frozen glass:

“Cost: The collar. Surrender.”

Anton’s hand went to his throat instinctively. The stiff band of cloth, iced and rigid, suddenly felt heavier than any chain. He had worn it like armor — even when he had no warmth left to give.

His voice cracked, barely audible. “And if I do? Where will it take me?”

The Child’s eyes did not blink.
“In the snow, all paths are the same. You cannot see until you surrender.”

He looked to the Booth and inside at a large ice table within it.  It triggered something within him.  A memory.  He was suddenly there in his mind.

He was much younger now, walking up the aisle in a grand church.  Family and friends' faces were looking at him.  This must be my ordination.

His feet took him to the altar where he saw his best man.

His best man. 

Oh, no.  No please God not here not now.  I tried so hard to forget to move on!

It was the wedding day that never happened.  

The pews began to blur, faces whispering, pitying, their voices like wind over the snow. His own heart pounded in his ears as the vision twisted — the organ keening into a wail, the veil unraveling like frost in the sun. He was alone, standing at the altar with no bride, nothing but silence and cold.

The confessional of ice loomed back into focus. The words still burned across its frozen glass:

“Cost: The collar. Surrender.”

Anton’s hand trembled against his throat. “All these years,” he whispered. “I thought if I built walls… if I kept everything orderly… I wouldn’t feel the absence. But it was always there. Always waiting.”

The Still Child watched him, her voice soft, almost sorrowful.
“Frost preserves, Anton. But it also keeps wounds from healing, and spend enough time in the cold and you find it bites back. You must decide if you will stay frozen… or let go.”

“I don’t know how, I can't, I'm too old now” he mewed, eyes wide, pleading.

“The first step is always the hardest.  Look at your journey here.  The body does not want the cold; it is uncomfortable, painful.  Eventually after enough time and distance you learn to live with it.  Every Cross is like this.  It will either damn you, or uplift you” The Child stepped closer, her bare feet soundless in the snow. She touched the ice, and the booth shimmered like stained glass. " Will you surrender?”

His eyes darted to the Child.
“If I surrender this…” His throat tightened. “…am I still a priest?”

The girl did not answer. She only looked at him with those candle-lit eyes, warm but unyielding.

He pressed on, almost pleading. “If I let it go, what remains of me? That day… when she left me… the collar was all I had left. Without it…” His words crumbled into the snow. “…without it, I am no one.”

She crouched until she was at eye level, “You will never know who you are by standing still.”

“I have nothing else,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is all I am.”

The Still Child leaned closer, her voice barely more than a breath.
“Perhaps that is the frost speaking. Not you.”

The wind screamed against the tundra, rattling the booth’s sharp edges until they hummed like a choir of knives. Anton closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

For one suspended moment, it was unclear whether he would clutch the collar tighter… or finally surrender it to the Toll Booth.

And the booth waited.

“Help me” was all he said.  She nodded and helped him to his feet.

Fumbling fingers groped at his neck until he popped the snap button on the back of his neck releasing his collar.  He grasped it gingerly between both sets of fingers.  He gingerly held it up to his eyes to study it.  

“This is my pain, surrendered to you”. 

 He placed it gently on the ice table inside the Booth. The white collar looked absurd there, small and fragile against the cathedral of frost, like a scrap of linen laid on an altar.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Only the sound of his own breath, harsh and uneven.
Then the air thickened — heavy, humid, almost tropical — and the frost on the walls began to sweat. The confessional shivered as if it might collapse, or melt, or open.

Anton staggered back, eyes wide, but the Child caught his hand, her grip firm and warm against his frozen fingers.
“You asked for help,” she said softly. “Now the frost will answer.”

The Bishop’s words echoed in his mind, remember what it means to be a father.  He took a deep breath, and stepped through the veil.

Morning came late to Ketchikan, the gray light dragging itself across St. Mary’s like a tired shawl. Thomas shouldered open the side door with his usual grunt, breath fogging, the thermos of coffee tucked against his ribs.

“Father? You here already?” His voice carried down the nave, thin in the cold.

He stopped.

Fr. Anton Brusk sat upright in the front pew, hands folded, eyes lifted toward the altar. Frost rimed his lashes. A thin lace of ice banded his collarbone where the collar should have been, the skin there pale and bare. Snow crystals dusted his shoulders as if he’d been sitting in a light, patient snowfall that had chosen him alone.

“Jesus, Mary…” Thomas whispered, the coffee slipping from his fingers and thudding against the runner. He hurried forward, reached out, and snatched his hand back at the bite of the cold. Brusk’s lips were parted a fraction, as though he’d been about to say something and never quite did.

“Father? Hey—Father?” He knew, but he asked anyway. The silence answered.

The main doors creaked. Footsteps entered without the awkwardness of parish shoes. A man in a dark coat crossed the threshold, pulled the doors gently shut behind him, and stood for a moment as if letting the church accept him. A small pin glinted on his lapel: a six-pointed star with an artful M nested at its heart.

“Can I help you?” Thomas managed, still kneeling, one hand hovering uselessly over Brusk’s sleeve.

The man glanced once at the body, once at the altar, as if confirming an inventory. His eyes were tired but not unkind. “You’ve done enough,” he said softly. “Thank you for opening up.”

Two more figures waited in the doorway, silhouettes against the morning. The man moved past Thomas, knelt briefly, and laid two fingers against Brusk’s wrist—not for a pulse, Thomas realized, but like a quiet acknowledgment, a sign of respect given and received.

He straightened. The pin caught the weak light.

“We’ll take it from here.”