Bells echo through the Arctic darkness; there’s no other sound to quiet them. Beckoned by their tolling, hundreds of holiday worshippers shuffle in from the winter night. It’s minus-20 out there, mild by Inuvik standards. Inside, under the snow-frosted cupola of the town’s famed “igloo church,” it’s much warmer, both in temperature and spirit.

With a silvery, Byzantine dome towering 20 metres above downtown Inuvik, this graceful cathedral has been a Mackenzie Delta landmark since it opened in 1960. But for most days, Our Lady of Victory Roman Catholic Parish sits empty, save for Sunday services, the weeknight masses attended by a handful of devotees, and periodic checkups from the caretaker.

Tonight is different. It’s 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve and every pew is packed. The annual Christmas midnight mass is about to begin – a tradition with a not-so-traditional start time. Comforting notes from O Come All Ye Faithful welcome the stragglers scurrying to the last few seats. Some wiggle their fingers to greet smiling cousins across the aisle. Others clasp their hands solemnly, facing straight ahead. In the front rows, elders sit beside their grown sons and daughters. In the middle pews, newcomers with cameras in their too-hot parkas, mix among long-time Inuvikites. Near the back are largely families with small children – toddlers dressed in miniature velvet-bowed dresses or suits with satin ties. The tots roam free, taking wobbly steps in the aisle, then glancing back at their daduks’ watchful gazes.

Father Lawrence Chukwu strides to the altar, his gold robes asway. “Let us pray for our families, wherever they may be,” he cries, his voice carrying to the arched ceiling several storeys above. “Let us pray for the town of Inuvik. Let us pray!” Behind him, six artificial evergreens twinkle as a backdrop. Chukwu, who arrived not so long ago from Nigeria, then shares his first impressions of this little Arctic town. It’s cold, isolated, worlds away from his native Africa, he says. “But it’s peaceful here.”

Then, later in the sermon, after contrasting the biblical Bethlehem with the present war-torn horrors of the Middle East, the priest pauses. “Are you happy?” he asks, stepping down from the altar and searching the perplexed faces. “If you’re happy, clap your hands!” There’s a faint smattering of applause. “If you’re happy, say amen!” A few amens resound. “If you’re happy, stomp your feet!” Young and old trade skeptical expressions, raising their eyebrows, shrugging their shoulders. They chuckle, then guffaw, and then almost at once they decide they really are happy enough to show it. In the middle of the Arctic darkness, moments before the stroke of Christmas, the igloo church vibrates with hundreds of pairs of stomping feet.

- Joyce Lapierre