My kokum blessed what the world said was incompatible: I became an Indigenous priest

This First Person column is written by Father Cristino Bouvette who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I had sped across the lands of the Siksika Nation countless times before, just never this fast. That familiar road always brought to mind my dear kokum who, little by little, had been instilling in her grandson-turned-Catholic priest an ever-deepening awareness of our ancestry. 

Driving across those plains, inching towards foothills, somehow felt like a reconciliation of my two identities: the man I had been since the moment of my conception — a man of Indigenous heritage — and the man I became after years of formation and preparation — a disciple of Christ and a missionary. The world constantly told me my two identities were incompatible given Canada's history. But I had found a sort of compatibility thanks to my kokum, just as  those plains became foothills on the horizon. 

Kokum was Cree from Saddle Lake and my grandfather was Métis from central Alberta. She first learned about Christianity at home. Her great-grandfather was one of the first ordained Indigenous men in pre-Confederation Canada for the Methodist Church. Her father diligently translated Christian hymns into Cree. 

But Kokum was also a residential school survivor. Despite the abuse and trauma she endured from some people who were supposed to represent God's mercy, she still had deep faith. 

The harmony she experienced in being both Christian and Indigenous is something I learned from her.

This time, though, the speed of my driving was not motivated by daydreaming of what Kokum had taught me. This time, it was the sound of her voice relayed through a call from my aunt. 

"Kokum doesn't have much time left, my boy, and she's asking for you. How quickly can you get here?" 

I was testing my well-worn engine as well as multiple jurisdictions of law enforcement to find out. Of all days, Divine Providence would have me 300 kilometres further away than usual from my kokum's home. 

It was a Friday at 3 p.m. — what we Catholics traditionally call the Hour of Mercy in commemoration of the hour of Christ's death on the cross —when I began reciting the appointed prayers. I said those prayers for my kokum. Was she calling for her grandson or her priest? It made no difference to me. I wanted desperately to be holding her hand at that moment. I owed it to her!

Some 15 years earlier, when I nervously broached the topic of my intentions to pursue the priesthood, it was her hand grasping mine. I wasn't sure how she would react to her own grandson becoming so involved in the institution of the Church when it had failed her in so many ways. 

Her eyes closed tight after I abruptly made the announcement, and I couldn't tell if it was a look of pain or consternation. Then that strong 85-year-old hand squeezed hard. "Oh my boy, I've known many good nuns and priests. I know you'll be one of those." 

LISTEN | Cristino Bouvette shares why he was nervous to tell his kokum he wanted to become a priest

With a grandson's love and a priest's fervour, I prayed those prayers with absolute conviction that she was going to hang in there until I made it. I wasn't going to let her down; God wasn't going to let her down.