The Lazarus Dove: personal narrative by Gary Ingle

doves of peace, image by Gerd Altmann, on Pixabay

The Lazarus Dove

The boy was 11 years old in the summer of 1957. He had seen a slingshot that belonged

to one of the older boys who lived down the road, and he wanted one like it. He searched the trees near his home for a limb with a fork in it to make the stock. He found a hickory branch that served the purpose and whittled out the wood with his pocketknife. Next, he found an inner tube from a truck tire that had had a “blow out” and could not be patched. He carefully trimmed two strips of the rubber with his mother’s scissors. Then he needed some leather for the patch that would hold the stones. The tongue of a worn-out old work boot his dad had thrown away provided material that was just right. These pieces were carefully fitted together and tied with some white twine, and the slingshot was ready for action.

When the device was finished, the boy was quite proud of his work. He carried his slingshot with him everywhere he went. He could often be found alone shooting small stones at fence posts or tin cans. But weeks of practice had not been enough to make

him a proficient marksman. He rarely hit what he aimed at.

Late one morning, his mother sent him to the garden for a few fresh tomatoes for something she was going to prepare for lunch. He picked three or four of the big red ones and placed them gently in a bucket and started back to the house. When he went through the garden gate, he paused and looked back over the garden. He was leaning against the gate when

a turtle dove cupped its wings and came to rest on the limb of a pine tree just overhead. Some primal hunter instinct overcame the boy. He reached for the slingshot in his hip pocket, placed a stone in the patch, and sent it in the direction of the bird.

Much to his surprise, the bird fell, tumbling down from the tree and landing limp near the boy’s feet. The boy collapsed to his knees beside the bird, suddenly feeling a terrible sense of guilt. He didn’t mean to shoot it, but he had, and the evidence lay on the ground

in front of him. As he looked sadly at the bird, he was amazed at how beautiful it was. He had never been this close to a dove, and the strange iridescent colors of its feathers were remarkable. Sometimes the tones were green, then pink or maybe purple depending on

the angle of the sunlight.   

He felt very ashamed that his deed had caused the fall of this lovely creature. To make matters worse, the bird’s mate flew onto the same branch in the pine tree, looked down

at the scene, and cooed mournfully. The boy recalled his mother had told him they mate

for life, and they grieve for their mate if one is lost. He felt a hard lump form in his chest where his heart should be. As tears welled up in his eyes, he prayed, “Lord, please don’t

let this bird be dead.” When he looked back down at the dove, he thought he saw a twitch, then a flutter almost like it was shaking off the water from a bird bath, and at last the dove opened its eyes and cocked its head and looked at the boy. The tiny black eye blinked once and then with an explosion of wings the bird arose from the ground in flight. It was joined by its mate, and they flew south across the field, side by side out of sight.

The feeling of remorse and heartache went away as swiftly as the dove. The boy smiled.

All things were good in his world again. He stood up and hung the slingshot on the gatepost. He picked up the bucket of tomatoes and walked toward the house. After about ten steps, he stopped and looked back at the slingshot hanging from the gatepost. It wasn’t something he was proud of anymore. He turned back toward the house and, as he walked, he looked up into the clear blue summer sky and softly said, “Thank you, Jesus.”

It’s been over fifty years since that hot summer day in Oklahoma, and I have never done harm to another bird. I often saw doves around our place as a child, and each time I saw one I wondered if it could be the “Lazarus dove” that I shot. From this childhood experience I learned to have a respect for all living things, but more importantly, I learned that, for sure, there is a God who watches over the doves and answers the prayers of little boys who go astray.

Gary Ingle was born in Rover, Arkansas. He grew up in sawmill towns in Oklahoma

and Arkansas and retired as the Service Coordinator for a Canadian company

that produced sawmill equipment. He and his wife were married for 51 years. Gary

passed away in 2024 and is survived by his widow, Joyce. It is with her permission

that we are publishing “The Lazarus Dove.” In Joyce’s words, “He would be pleased

if you published the story and it was meaningful to others.” 

June 2025 issue