Why couldn't he think of a title for his sermon Sunday-again? Intuko rubbed his temples, reclined in his brown leather chair that was cracking from wear, and planted his feet on the floor. He tapped his pen on the chair arm, then leaned forward and jotted down a few words. As he stared at the words, he shook his head. No good. He scratched them out. Frustrated, he closed his eyes.

Every Thursday he encountered the same dilemma, thinking of the appropriate heading for Sunday's sermon to put in the bulletins. Most members in his struggling downtown Vancouver church seemed to accept the fact that there was often an empty space beside the word sermon in Sunday's bulletin. He had joked about it, asking everyone to bear with him; the title always came to him on Friday-a day too late. One Sunday he even preached about Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, and used this as an example. Of course, the idea also came from the fact that Fumbling Towards Ecstasy was the title of Sarah McLachlan's CD, which he listened to a great deal.

A knock shook his office door, and when he opened his eyes he saw Hazel peeking around the corner.

"Intuko?

"Hazel, come on in."

"It's Thursday. The bulletin needs--"

"I know."

She chuckled and stepped into his office. "Don't forget," she said jokingly, wagging her finger at him, "we should look at our failures as gifts. That sermon of yours has stuck with me and helps me through some of those days. Don't be so hard on yourself."

He smiled at the little woman, with the short curly red hair and bright green eyes, standing by his office door. Hazel cheerfully fulfilled her job as secretary for Princess Street United Church, always staying on top of what needed to be done. With the church's financial woes, the job was only part-time but she had already raised her daughter single-handedly and was now a doting grandmother.

Hazel walked proudly and officiously, in her soft-soled Wallabies, toward Intuko's desk.

"I have some messages for you. I didn't want to disturb you earlier." She clutched a handful of pink message slips in her hand. "Let's see, Joe at Street People Ministry rang."

"Did he say what he wanted?" Intuko stuck his pen behind his ear.

"I think he wants you to help out with the teens on Wednesday night. I guess they've got so many homeless kids coming to the street bus that they're overwhelmed."

"I'll call him back. He's doing a great job with S.P.M."

"Do you miss being at the helm?" Hazel slid the message slip toward him.

"That's a tough question. It's such an emotional job. So many of our kids come for help but in the end they don't have the strength to follow through with the changes. You always hope for that one. Like Chris. What are my other messages?"

"Well, this was a strange one-talking about hoping for that one-but Lola called."

"Lola!" Intuko immediately leaned forward and held out his hand for the message. "I haven't seen her in a few years." He glanced at the pink slip. "You're right, I always wanted her to straighten out and I thought she had it in her." Concerned, he looked up. "How did she sound?"

Hazel pursed her lips. "Not good." She paused for a split second before she said, "Intuko, I saw her the other day. Wearing next to nothing, and wiggling toward a car that had stopped. I'm sure it was her. She was around the corner from here, on Hastings and Main." She sadly shrugged her shoulders. "Such a shame. I liked that girl too."

Once again, he glanced down at the pink paper. He turned it over to study the back. "She didn't leave a number? I'd like to call her."

"Sorry. I asked, but she said she wouldn't have a phone for a few more days. Jimmy was getting her hooked up."

Intuko slumped in his chair and blew out a rush of air. "Her pimp, I take it?"

"That's my guess. It makes me sick that these guys prey on these young vulnerable women. Okay, the last message here is from a..." Hazel stopped to read her own handwriting, "a Susan Peterson, at the Women's Correctional Institute. I'm not sure what she wanted, she just said for you to ring her back."

Puzzled, he reached for this last message slip. "This woman was at church last Sunday. When she introduced herself on the way out, she asked if I still taught Inuit art. I haven't taught in years so I have no idea how she tracked down my name. She wants me to teach a carving class at the prison where she works as an officer." He pulled his pen out from behind his ear and tapped it on his desk. "One day a week shouldn't take too much of my time."

"I still have the seal you carved for me out of that beautiful green stone." Hazel almost sang her words. "It sits on my mantel and I get more compliments on that than anything else in my house. This class would be good for you."

"You're right. It might be fun to get back to my art."

"And give you something to do besides work."

He laughed. "Are you worrying about me again?"

"No," she said adamantly. "But you're a good artist and you shouldn't let all that talent be wasted. I always say art shows what's inside the true person. And your art is charming. Intuko, stop furrowing, your eyebrows are near touching one another. Now, could I get you a coffee?"

He waved his arms to shoosh her away. "You're not here to fetch me coffee."

"I don't mind, really. Lordy-be, my old husband used to sit on his duff and wait. Sometimes, he'd wait a long time." She paused. "If there's nothing else, I do have to get back to my desk. We want to have something to hand out Sunday morning."

"You know the title will come to me tomorrow and..." His old friend stood with her hands clasped together and her head tilted to the side; a body position that indicated she had something else to say. "Hazel, what is it?"

"I don't mean to pry but this Susan woman, she wouldn't work at ... that wouldn't be the same prison your mum ended up in?" Her eyes widened.

"I'm afraid so."

"Since I've known you-you've avoided that place!"

"I know. But ... sometimes things happen for a reason." Intuko leaned back, thinking. "You know, ironically enough, in my daily devotion today I read the passage from 2 Kings 5:1-15. It was about Naaman and Elisha. Naaman had his own ideas about how God could use him and heal him of his leprosy but God showed him that he really wanted him to work in other ways. Naaman had to accept and trust that bathing in the Jordan River would cure him even if it wasn't the way he thought it was to be."

Hazel slipped into the chair facing him and straightened the bottom of her pale pink blouse until it covered her round belly. She locked her fingers together and placed her hands on his desk. "I couldn't do what you're thinking of doing." She cringed, shaking as if she had the shivers. Unclasping her hands, she leaned forward and whispered. "Did you ever see exactly where she died?"

"We ... were in the visitors lounge." He rolled the message slip between his fingers. "She wasn't how I wanted her to be. I never saw her again after that." He sat up, flattened the message slip on his desk, and forced a smile. "It all happened twenty years ago. I was just fifteen."

"But, she was your mum." Hazel stood and patted his hand. "Just remember, you can always drink tea with me and talk."

After Hazel left, Intuko picked up the message slips.. Why hadn't he been here to answer her call? Then he ran the crumpled pink paper with Susan's number through his fingers. This little note conjured up a lot of memories. He closed his eyes, hoping to block out his childhood.

But he could hear the drone of the plane's engine. Every year, in September, the planes would land in his small Arctic hamlet of Tuktoyaktuk to pick up the school aged children. Intuko, along with his cousins, siblings, and friends all boarded the plane, knowing they wouldn't return home until June. Saying good-bye had been horrible. The women would cry in wails as their children were ripped from their arms and forced to leave. As the plane lifted, Intuko would press his nose to the small glass window and wave to his grandmother ... but never his mother.

She couldn't be bothered to see him off. Once at school, Intuko would live like an orphan in a residence, not even being allowed to go home for winter solstice celebrations or Christmas. All because of government rules.

One summer when he arrived home from residential school, he had to live with his grandmother and grandfather, Anaanak and Adaadak because his mother had run away with a white man.

"Your mama, she no good," Grandmother had said. "Tan'ngit evil spirits have entered her. Oh, those tan'ngit, their white skin bad for our people."

Sitting at his desk, Intuko lifted his head and gave a silent prayer of thanks, for he would never forget his anaanak. He smiled wistfully, thinking of her. She had been a shaman in their hamlet. And a good one at that.

Even after his Christian studies, Intuko still didn't understand why so many religious men thought shamans were evil. His anaanak was the most spiritual and kind person he'd ever met. Why would God think of her as evil? Shamans had been a way for his people to commune with the spiritual world, a way for them to find the tuktut herds so they could eat and survive. And a way for them to visit the moon or go to the bottom of the ocean. Sometimes he couldn't understand why the church made such strident rules when God didn't.

Shaking his head, he looked down at the phone message from Susan Peterson. He never dreamed he would be offered a job teaching Inuit art at the prison which incarcerated his mother. Had his grandmother set this up from the spirit world? He wouldn't put it past her.

Intuko stroked the nunuq carving that was sitting on his desk, his first as a-five-year-old, and rubbed his fingers along the smoothness of the whalebone. It had been a long time since he had practised his art.

Then he picked up his fox. His white fox. He had carved the fox out of soapstone with his anaanak the summer his mother had left. The two of them had sat on the ground amidst the tufted pearlwort, the Arctic lupines, and the cotton grass and carved with the twenty-four hour sun beating down on their backs. His anaanak spoke to Intuko in the Inuvialuit language-which he could barely understood after being at English school-and told him to pay heed to his white fox. Always.

He rubbed his thumb on his fox's pointed ears and long nose, noticing that his carving was covered in dust. He sighed. His fox hadn't come to him in years. Or maybe, he just hadn't been around for its visit. Was he that far removed from his culture?

He placed his fox back down on his desk, picked up the phone, and listened to the dial tone. So many years had passed-surely he could handle an art class once a week. He punched the numbers on the telephone. Susan Peterson wasn't there so he left a message that he was available to teach but would need supplies. He put down the phone just to hear it ring again.

"Intuko speaking."

"It's me, Lola." Her voice sounded soft, feeble.

"Lola! I'm so glad you called back. It's been years. We've missed your pretty smile at youth group."

"Really, my pretty smile."

"Coffee's always on. Come for a visit."

"Could I come now? I'm right around the corner."

"Sure. Cream and sugar?"

"Just black."