For the first time since I moved back to Canada, we’re having a white Christmas in my hometown—and this has brought to mind, at the beginning of this Jubilee Year, a local(ish) poem about the Nativity. “He Is There at the Edge of the Woods” by renowned Mi’kmaw Catholic writer Rita Joe is truly one of my favourite short pieces. I would like to share from it (note that Niskam means “Creator” or “God,” and Kji-Saqmaw, “Grand Chief”):

I see the baby Niskam
When the white snow is on the ground
The branches hanging down with their load
All still, with no sound

I see him there at the edge of the woods
To my eyes like a feathered brave
The essence of all of my life
Showing beauty to all the world

I see him there at the edge of the woods
Reminding me that he is my Kji-Saqmaw
Reality is the cap in my hand
And humility plays the most part

I see him there at the edge of the woods
When the white snow is on the ground
He is our babe as surely as he is native,
For all cultures he is their own[1]

I don’t want to give too much commentary. It’s Christmas. You have better things to do than to read my words. But I can’t help but saying just one thing. I need to make one tiny observation. This poem, with all its beauty, makes me think of Querida Amazonia:

Inculturation elevates and fulfills. Certainly, we should esteem the indigenous mysticism that sees the interconnection and interdependence of the whole of creation, the mysticism of gratuitousness that loves life as a gift, the mysticism of a sacred wonder before nature and all its forms of life.

At the same time, though, we are called to turn this relationship with God present in the cosmos into an increasingly personal relationship with a “Thou” who sustains our lives and wants to give them a meaning, a “Thou” who knows us and loves us…

Similarly, a relationship with Jesus Christ, true God and true man, liberator and redeemer, is not inimical to the markedly cosmic worldview that characterizes the indigenous peoples, since he is also the Risen Lord who permeates all things. (nos. 73–74)

Rita Joe’s poem shows a lot, if not all, of this. Jesus, the little baby, lies at the peripheries, like Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem. His vulnerable infant self is “at the edge of the woods”—at the edge. Yet he is also the Creator, and when we look into those woods, we find him: “I see him there at the edge of the woods.” He’s not immediately present to us. It’s not in your face. But he is there, the Creator God. We see him at the edge of the woods. For me, here, in the Dawnland (Maritime Peninsula), those woods are today covered in snow—like they used to be much more often in the past. And that makes it really hard to put this poem out of my mind. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Blessed Solemnity of the Nativity to you!

[1] Rita Joe, “He Is There at the Edge of the Woods,” in The Middle Years: Song of Eskasoni and L’nu and Indians We’re Called (Syndey, NS: Breton Books, 2024), 87.