Beneath the Winter Light: An Advent Journey in Moccasins
“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined.”
— Isaiah 9:2
As the first signs of winter arrive, I find myself thinking about Solomon Ratt’s book, The Way I Remember. In it, he recalls the daily rhythm of his youth — hauling water from the lake, chiselling holes through the ice, and tending to the quiet work that shaped life in the North.
Reading his words stirs my own memories. I remember hauling water with my Nordic snowmobile, dragging a sled with a barrel tied down, then carrying the water into the house by pail. Other than a few water bugs swimming around — which I strained out — the water was clear, cold, and pure, drawn straight from the lake. We heated the house with an oil stove, and our main cookstove was a white-enameled cast-iron beauty, complete with a water tank and oven. In the summer, we switched to a propane stove. Winter meant chopping wood, keeping the fire going, and making sure the snowmobile would run for the weekend’s chores and small adventures.
Those were simple days — steady, quiet, and full of purpose. Covering the hole on the lake with plywood to keep it from freezing over or listening to the hum of the snowmobile at dusk — as a youth, these weren’t just chores, they were lessons in responsibility and patience. They shaped a life that was grounded and healthy, teaching values that today can feel rare in our youth.
Those memories — his and mine — remind me of what it means to belong to a place and to a people. The work, the seasons, and the small acts of care that kept our homes warm and our spirits steady were lessons in resilience long before I had words for them. In those days, we didn’t talk about culture or tradition; we simply lived them.
And somewhere within those winter days long ago were moccasins. For as long as I can remember, I have worn them — made by hand from home-tanned moose hide, beaded and sewn with skill passed down through generations. Each pair feels like a gift — from the land, the animal, the maker, and the Creator who made it all possible. I remember my mother spending countless hours softening hides, beading patterns, and shaping them to fit perfectly. Every stitch was a quiet prayer — of love, resilience, and connection to those who came before and those yet to come.
Now, as I receive another pair of moose hide moccasins, and as the rich aroma of woodsmoke used to cure the hide fills the air — and once again, I feel grounded, connected to memory, to home, and to those who walked this path before me. They carry the same rhythm as those winter days of my youth — steady, patient, and filled with quiet adventure.
As Advent begins — a season of waiting and walking toward new light (with new moccasins) — I reflect on what it means to walk with intention. Advent invites stillness, gratitude, and trust in the path ahead. Each soft step in my moccasins reminds me of where I come from, and of the Creator who continues to guide each season of life.
May this winter remind us that even in stillness, we are on a sacred journey — one that began long ago beside frozen lakes, warm fires, and moccasins stitched with love.
Closing Prayer
Creator, Nôhtâwînân as winter settles over the land, help us walk gently in Your light.
May the memories of our youth warm our hearts,
and the moccasins of our spirit carry us with gratitude and hope.
Guide our steps through the stillness of this season,
that we may walk toward Your light — with peace, with purpose, and with love.
By Rusty Gardiner, OMI
