He runs four interconnected boarding houses on a quiet street downtown. He lives in the second house; the other boarders are psychiatric patients.

There's a vacancy in one house at the moment; you see, a few weeks ago, Fr. Joe had a heart attack; while he was in hospital, one of the boarders moved out. She was afraid she caused his illness. Fr. Joe says she'll be back. I'm sure he's right. The homes are good, the rooms are clean, the boarders are a tight community, and Fr. Joe is – well, he's a good Joe, he does what he can.

In spite of the heart attack, he continues with his work. He supervises the home, says mass, conducts funerals and retreats, provides counselling and on Saturday nights he delivers hot soup to the men and women who sleep on the street. Many of these are older people in need of psychiatric care. He knows them. They trust him. He doesn't preach. He just shows up with soup. He says they need to hear a friendly voice, someone they can count on.

The streets are dangerous. No slab of concrete provides real comfort, and no heating grate provides real warmth. "But," says Fr. Joe, "we shy away from scooping people off the sidewalks because that would be a violation of their freedom."

He knows hot soup is no substitute for what's really needed: individual counselling, individual care - all the things we as a society say we can't afford to provide. But Joe does what he can. He finds the money for his boarding houses. He doesn't make a lot of noise. He lives with the people he serves. And last Saturday, as the temperature dropped and the wind was picking up, he filled a giant thermos with chicken soup, filled another thermos with coffee, loaded a box with sandwiches and juice and, with the help of a volunteer driver – he can't drive since he had the heart attack – he went on patrol.

First stop, City Hall: A dozen men and women have bedded down on the concrete, with sheets of cardboard under their sleeping bags, trying to stay warm in the soft light from the office windows.

Fr. Joe kneels beside an old man in a sleeping bag. In spite of the cold, the man is drenched in sweat.

"How are you tonight, friend? Will you have hot soup?"

"Hey, father, soup is good. Haven't seen you for a while. How you keeping? Heart attack? Oh, man. I didn't know. You okay now?"

The homeless care for him, he cares for them. And so it goes. He finds a couple in the shadow of the courthouse and a man – no sleeping bag, no cardboard for a mattress – lying face down on the sidewalk, across the street from the police station. The man is passed out.

One of the street patrols will come along soon.

In the shadows of a tiny downtown corner, Fr. Joe looks for the Duguid brothers. Instead, he finds a native woman huddled in a raggedy sleeping bag. She doesn't know where the Duguids are.

Fr. Joe gives her soup and coffee and tells her to say hello when the brothers show up. She nods and Fr. Joe, who is Irish, adds, "You tell those Duguid brothers I'm going to send the little people after them."

The native woman considers this briefly, then cracks a helpless, gap-toothed grin – the thought of the Duguid brothers being chased by a gang of little people is hilarious.

"Peace," says Fr. Joe.

When the soup is gone, and nearly 30 people have been made a little warmer, he heads back to the boarding house.

He's done all he can for the night.

Fr. Joe used to have a German shepherd. Maggie was a faithful pet for many years, and then she died. A friend gave him a book about grieving for your pet, and he adopted another shepherd, Mollie. Neurotic but not stupid, Mollie ate the book. So much for grief. Turn your attention to the living.

Good girl, Mollie.

Way to go, Joe.