It’s winter in Ontario. Whether we like it or not, that means that we need to renew our acquaintance with the snow shovel.
There is nothing quite like the first snowfall to remind a parish priest of two great spiritual truths:
1. Winter has arrived with all the subtlety of a brass band, and
2. The Lord loves us, but apparently expects us to shovel.
I maintain that every congregation has a parish snow shovel — sometimes two, occasionally seventeen, depending on how many enthusiastic parishioners felt moved by the Spirit during a Canadian Tire clearance sale. Ours is the humble, slightly bent, eternally loyal instrument of winter sanctification. It leans in the narthex like a weary monk, waiting for the next call to service, or possibly just hoping someone will fix its wobbly handle before Easter.
Now, shovelling the church walkway is no small thing. It is a peculiar blend of vocation, perseverance, and cardio. One moment, you are a serene person contemplating the mysteries of the Incarnation; the next, you are locked in mortal combat with a drift that appears to be actively resisting conversion. If snow has spiritual gifts, stubbornness is surely one of them.
I have learned over the years that the parish snow shovel teaches us ministry in miniature.
It reminds us that:
- Vocation is often discovered at the bottom of the steps.
God may indeed call through burning bushes, but more often the call arrives as a text from the junior warden saying, “Father, the steps are a skating rink again.” And suddenly, you discover that vocation includes the prophetic, the pastoral, and the mildly heroic. - Perseverance is a fancy word for “keep going.”
Shovelling is a sacrament of persistence. Just when you clear the last step, a gust of wind topples a fresh load of snow upon your newly minted masterpiece, as though the weather itself is testing your eschatology. Ministry, too, has this recurring quality: finish one task, and three more drift in. - The spiritual gift of not slipping is under-appreciated.
Let us be honest — nothing humbles a priest faster than performing an involuntary liturgical dance on icy stone. Yet each careful step becomes a prayer: “Lord, plant my feet on higher ground — or at least a dry one.” Grace abounds, but so does ice. - Service done quietly is sometimes the holiest of all.
When the early parishioners arrive and walk safely inside without noticing the labour that made their welcome possible, there is a gentle joy in that hidden kindness. The Kingdom grows as much through cleared steps as through soaring sermons.
So let us take heart, friends. Whether you wield the parish snow shovel yourself or pray fervently for those who do, remember this: God is somehow in the shovelling. In the small, cold, persistent tasks that keep a community moving forward — one step, one scrape, one determined heave at a time. And in this, we find the quiet beauty of vocation lived faithfully, boots crunching on fresh snow.
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Bless all who labour in winter’s chill—those who clear steps, shovel paths, and make safe the way for others.
Grant us perseverance when the drifts are deep, humour when the ice is slippery, and gratitude for every unseen act of service that builds your Kingdom in gentle ways.
Keep our feet steady, our hearts warm, and our spirits joyful in all we do for love of you.
Amen.