The Mourning Dove, A Christmas Story

  

He saw his little angel in the sky, its wings spread wide, soaring high, and then he watched it plummet to the ground.

After a moment a young boy appeared from behind a tree, bee-bee gun in hand, to claim his prize.

“Are you going to eat that bird?” he asked.

“No. I just got this toy gun today, Christmas Day,

So I thought I’d practice shooting.”

  

The man looked softly at his angel motionless on the ground and held out his hand, full of seeds, and slowly sprinkled them over her while murmuring a prayer.

“What are you doing to my bird?” asked the boy.

“You see, it’s my tradition that on Christmas day we visit the forests and feed the animals, for without animals we would have nothing. So I have seeds and nuts and flowers that I’ve collected all throughout the year. I’ve sprinkled the seeds on her because I know she would have loved to have gobbled them up, so I’ve offered them to her spirit.”

“Well, I never heard of such a thing. Today is Christmas day and we go shoot things with our new guns. This year I’ve earned a bee-bee gun, next year I’ll be old enough for a real rifle!”

  

The old man sighed. “Would you like me to show you something?”  

The boy nodded his head.

“But you have to put down that thing you’ve got in your hand and be very, very still.  And you must promise to keep secret all the magical things of the forest that I show you today.”

The boy nodded in agreement.

“Here,” he said, handing him the bags of food he’d saved all year long for this special day. “Now we must walk very quietly and very peacefully.”

They stood at the edge of the forest. The man softly put a finger to his lips. “Shh!” Together they entered. And the boy was shown all the many places that were the homes of the animals. He was shown how to find a fox den where they put some cranberries, and the deer habitat where they put some dried flowers, and some treats for the raccoons, and the possums, and chipmunks. And they had every kind of seed for the birds, and nuts for squirrels. And he even had crackers which he crushed in his hands and sprinkled wheat on the ground for the ants and other insects.

Slowly, one by one, the creatures came out of their homes and began eating their festive treats. And soon the birds started to sing and then the forest started to hum.

“What is happening asked the boy?”

“You see, in my tradition, we know that the forest is alive and beautiful, so we come out one day a year and give thanks to the animals for giving us food, beauty and songs. And the forest responds.”

Suddenly there appeared a golden light, and from where it came, they knew not. It flooded the forest, dappling the trees in prisms of gold.

Then the boy had a memory. He remembered a very long time ago, walking through the forests in soft padded shoes, and knowing that everything around him was alive and happy.

After a while they quietly left the forest and went back to the mourning dove. The man picked her up, held her in his hands, then held her up to the sky offering her to the creator, then to his heart and then towards the earth.

“Now what are you doing?” asked the boy.

“I’m wishing the spirit of the bird a good journey, back to its mother, the mother of all of life. Now you take the body of our little bird home and you bury her somewhere special and you take a large stone and hold it in your hands while imagining something beautiful. Then you lay the stone on the grave as a reminder of all that is good and precious in the world.”  The boy took the bird and his bee-bee gun and ran home.

The following day, it still being the Christmas holidays, the boy returned to the forest where walking alone, he saw nothing. The forest seemed so empty and lonely and he heard no birds and saw no friend. Every day the boy ran back to look for the man and the animals and sometimes he even took some sunflower seeds and nuts from his mother’s pantry, but he never saw his friend and he even wondered if he had only imagined or dreamed him.

Christmas holidays finished, the boy returned to school and slowly he forgot. The winter stormed, the spring rained, and was followed by summer, fall, and then came winter once again.

One day as the boy was running though his back yard, he tripped. He looked down and saw the stone marking the grave of his mourning dove. He touched the stone and remembered the man’s words, “to remember all things precious.” The following day would be Christmas.

The boy ran hopefully to the edge of the forest and there he stopped. The sight of the man caused the boy to double over with laughter.  

The man had a mourning dove nesting atop the cap that covered his white scraggly hair. As the bird pecked the seeds from his cap, another dove sat on his shoulder pecking at the seeds sprinkling down into his beard. A third mourning dove perched on his arm gobbling up the seeds he held out in his hand. Over his shoulder he carried bags of food.

Upon hearing the boy laugh, the man turned and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

And together they went into the forest where they watched the animals devour their treats as they celebrated the day of peace and love with all of the creatures. After many, many years, the friend died and the boy kept the tradition alive.

And now, dear friends, I share this tradition with you, if you are very gentle and walk softly in the forest, it just might come alive for you too!

This story was shared by a Paiute Elder and friend of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of generosity. You see, Christianity and the wisdom of the First Nations are compatible.

Linda Justice