“What’s going on here?” I asked. The congregation kept their heads down, looking intently at the wooden floor.

“What is that black dot?” No one moved. No one looked up. No one answered.

Amidst the silence, I didn’t know what I felt more, anger or fear. But of one thing I was certain: whatever that dot was, I was going to catch it. I strode to the back of the church as quickly as my long legs could carry me, my eyes searching for the old black dot with a loud voice. I thought it was one of their tricks. There had to be someone who had just wandered in off the land, someone who had just come in from the spring beluga run.

The dot, the stranger with the loud voice, was no longer there. Where did he go? I stuck my head out the door quickly and scanned the flat horizon. Nothing. No one. That was weird. I shook my head again and turned back to face the congregation as they shuffled past. I shook their hands and wished them each saimmasimaniq, personal peace. It was something I truly wished for every person in the community. Peace that would keep them from reaching for the things that broke their lives and their families. I wanted that one thing more than anything for this small group of faithful and faith-filled.

When Elder Tupik came by, I took her withered hand in mine and bent low toward her near-deaf ears. “Saimmasimaniq,” I shouted.

Tupik looked up at me with her wrinkled eyes and grinned. She nodded as she shuffled away. I held her elbow tightly to help her down the three wooden steps outside of the church and asked her in a low voice, “Tupik, what happened here today? What was that black dot?”

Tupik adjusted the knot of her red kerchief under her chin, looked up at me with her toothless smile and said, “Ittura!”

“Tupik, please repeat that in English,” I said with a smile.

“My husband!” Tupik whispered. “He comes to church every now and again.” She began to shuffle away again as two of her great-grand girls came up behind her.

“Mumiqtuq!” they giggled and scooped Tupik into their arms. They raised her small body into the air, her mukluks pointing toward the sun. Tupik burst into laughter.

“Hey, hey now,” I cautioned them. “Settle down, you girls. Tupik is no spring chicken! You girls, whose voice was in church today, near the back?”

“Ataatatsiaraaluk! Our great-grandfather.” The girls spoke in unison, then turned and walked away, supporting Tupik between them. I could see them whispering, heads bent to the ground.