The imposing structure rose up from the central east side of Detroit. Its main spire, ornate and towering above the city around it. Construction had started in 1870, and upon its completion, the doors opened to the residents of Detroit to hear sermons, confessor even receive a blessing. Weddings, funerals, communions, and christenings by the thousands, each event now just a ghost of a memory, scribbled away in a ledger somewhere in the parish. 

The music from the organ would echo far and wide on days of service. The sonorous notes carrying on the wind to resonate sorrow, joy, a celebration among the residents lucky enough to hear. The tall doors opened, and the early sun shone through the colorful and intricate stained glass windows above the pulpit. A rainbow of color, lighting the space and stood upon the simple wooden steps is a man, dressed in a simple robe, hair thinning on top, face weathered and yet kind. 

"Come in, my child." his voice echoes in the building, the organ stops playing and he beckons you into the sanctuary. As you walk up the aisle the imposing columns with gilt-laden fiogure3s of Jesus, and his disciples watch your every step, and a feeling of peace settles over you. The freshly polished wood pews are lined in a row, waiting for the parishioners to come and hear the word of our lord. As you reach the pulpit the man smiles slightly at you, "And what brings you to St. Joseph's, child?" he asks, his voice but a whisper in the serenity of the church.