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especially in a Michigan winter when anything from balmy temperatures to ice and snow could occur.
    He had forgotten how much he enjoyed shoveling snow. All those years he’d spent as pastor of a suburban parish, physical labor had been a spectator sport for him, as janitors and janitorial substitutes had performed all chores from landscaping to snow removal.
    This, however, was different. It had become common practice for Detroit priests, even pastors, to move on from one parish to another after a certain but not fixed number of years. When his time came, he felt a strong impulse to return to a city ministry. St. Joseph’s parish, near the heart of downtown Detroit, had opened up through the pastor’s retirement at just the moment Koesler’s option came due. Now he was in his seventh month as pastor and sole priest in residence at St. Joseph’s.
    Along with the ancient structures he’d inherited—church, rectory, and home for janitor and family—was a conscientious Italian gentleman who would have qualified as a sexton but that he did not need to dig graves. He certainly was much more than simply a janitor. He was electrician, plumber, horticulturist, and, frequently, early morning Mass server.
    But Dominic—no one called him Nick, or even Dom, for that matter—was, like all else on the corner of Jay and Orleans streets, ancient. He was susceptible to the minor aches and pains that can be doubly troubling for the elderly. Presently, it was a mild case of the flu. Koesler had insisted that Dominic remain in the warmth of his home and the care of his devoted wife.
    But somebody had to move this snow. And unlike his former suburban parish, where there had been substitute janitors, there was no money allocated here for that—nor were there any volunteering parishioners. So Koesler shoveled snow. And if he wondered whether this exercise might kill him, he had only to remember the sage advice of Irene Casey: “It’s good for you.”
    But, he thought, it might have been better had he been able to use the snowblower rather than the present shovel.
    The blower had been a present he had won for Dominic from a reluctant parish council. Koesler would never forget the first morning Dominic used the blower. It brought to mind the experience of a previous janitor in a previous parish. After the first few swipes, the janitor, looking like a snowman, had entered the toasty rectory kitchen to announce, “I’m-a-not like-a that machine.” But once he’d gotten the knack of turning the spout in any direction but directly at himself, all had gone well.
    Koesler did not have to worry about the spout; he couldn’t get the motor to start. It was an ongoing manifestation of his undeclared war on machines and tools. After some twenty tugs on the ignition rope, he decided that if this kept up he was about to leave his game in the garage and be physically unable to push either the blower or a shovel.
    Maybe there was something to that warning about heart attacks. He was now perspiring freely. He had cleared a path from the rectory to the church and also the church’s front steps, as well as the sidewalk from Orleans to the parking lot. That would accommodate the faithful few who attended daily Mass.
    He returned to the rectory, showered quickly, and donned a cassock. As he descended the stairs to the first floor, he caught the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He smiled: Mary O’Connor had arrived. Business for this twenty-seventh day of December had begun.
    Mary O’Connor, a widow, had, in a sense, come with him from the suburban parish to the central city. In suburbia she had been the parish secretary and general factotum. She was easily capable of managing all the necessary nitty-gritty of parochial life if only he would stay out of her way. He did and she did.
    When he applied for St. Joseph’s parish Mary was faced either with having to get used to an entirely new and different style of pastoring, or retirement. Neither