We didn’t go often — only when she was able to — but I would jump at the chance whenever she asked. I would listen intently while the priest spoke and I would watch the people, so I’d know when to stand, kneel or sit. And there was singing of beautiful songs. I couldn’t understand the lyrics, but I could feel the music.
People often brought sandwiches and tea boiled outside an open fire where people would catch up and visit for a bit.

On our way home, my grandmother would translate what the priest had said. It was a pivotal time for a child’s imagination, because the brown book was filled with incredible stories. My grandmother’s name is Lucy Goodswimmer, but she was known as “Ol tea iskew” which translates to Tea-maker Woman. People who visited my grandparents’ home were welcomed with tea.

One year, she told me Christmas was coming and there would be a midnight mass. My family had not long before moved from a Northern trapline to my home reserve. Everything was new to me; my awareness was starting to grow. She gave a brief version of a special baby whose birthday we would be celebrating at the mass. She told me a story of how that baby would grow up to sacrifice his life for the love of his people. For many people from my home reserve at the time, the midnight mass was a pilgrimage, where they would walk or take a horse team and wagon that was filled with laughing children.

She said the church would be packed with people coming from all over the place. Then she said there would be a feast afterwards. That immediately caught my attention. Like many people in my community, we had no electricity. So, there were no Christmas lights, but that didn’t stop people from having a tree.
Underneath our tree, I could see a present marked “Boy, 8 years old.” Since I was the only person that age in the house, I knew it was for me. I would find out years later the gift came from the local ladies’ hospital auxiliary. But at the time, it solidified an image of a big man flying around, giving all good boys and girls presents. To this day, I drop a present into Santa’s anonymous box because there is a child that might not get a present.

When Christmas Eve arrived, my grandmother wanted me to look good. Since we didn’t have running water, I had a sponge bath with water warmed over an old cast iron stove. It would be cold on our walk, so my grandmother made sure I had warm and clean clothes. We only had to turn one corner on an old gravel road before I could see the church. St. Francis Xavier is over 100 years old and it still standing. It sits overlooking the lake in an area that was known as “The Mission” because there used to be a residential school there and a building for the nuns who taught at the school. Both buildings are gone now, but the church is still there and still used for service every Sunday.

As we walked, I could hear the church bell echoing off the frozen lake. I could see the open fire in front of the lake and the shadows of people standing around it. My grandmother was greeted with hugs and kisses on the cheek. My first midnight mass took me on a journey of discovery of this special child that was born in a manger.

Last year, half a century later, I attended the midnight mass at that old church I was concerned there might not be many people there. My concern grew when I couldn’t see vehicles at the church. As I got closer, I could hear people and children laughing. I could see
people, some with their families, approaching the church. They were keeping the tradition of walking. It was a beautiful service. As I walked home, I could see most of the houses with Christmas lights, including my little place. From some homes, I could hear Christmas music being played. Almost every house had a Christmas tree with flashing lights on their front inside windows. My little community has endured many tragedies but we, the Cree, have resilience. The nation will move forward. It’s come a long way in a very short period. My grandmother would be proud.

Merry Christmas.

-Ken Noskye