Stories

Story: Love Achieved

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / Leave a comment

October 4, 2026

Isaiah 5:1-7
Philippians 3:4b-14

The first thing a newly hatched baby bird does is to teach. Teach? Teach. A hatchling teaches its parents what it needs, what they’ll eat, what makes them comfortable. Even an experienced parent will learn new things from a new chick. A first time parent learns more than I can describe in a short story like this.

A parent – in this case a mother – learns a lot about parenting from their own parents, of course, and from other friends and family who know more about it. Our first time mother had eagerly sought her own mother’s advice, not just when she had eggs, but before that when she’d sought a husband.

“How will I know that I’m in love?” she’d asked her mother.

“Look for a bird who is kind, attentive, responsible, and lifts your spirits,” said her mother. “The bird will show you those things. That’s how you’ll know you’re in love.”

Mother’s advice had been pretty good. She’d found a kind, attentive, and responsible bird, and he had raised her spirits. They’d built their nest together harmoniously and they’d eagerly awaited the hatching of their three eggs.

Then they’d hatched, and the learning began.

The first thing she learned was that the three hatchlings were all very different. They sounded different. They were hungry at different times, except for when they were all hungry at the same time. One liked to cuddle near her head, another liked to be beneath her wings. And then they’d shift what they liked.

It was so confusing.

Most confusing of all was that her chicks didn’t show her the things that she’d looked for in finding a husband. None of the chicks showed much kindness to her or to each other, especially when they were hungry. None of them were really attentive. They were constantly looking off at different things. They certainly weren’t responsible, hopping out of the nest at random times before they were even close to having the ability to fly.

It was really frustrating. How was she supposed to love these little bundles of needs?

“How am I supposed to love my chicks?” she asked her mother, and launched into describing all the ways in which they weren’t like her husband, or like her friends, or like her parents or aunties or uncles.

Her mother, I’m afraid to say, laughed out loud. “Children aren’t like husbands,” she said. “You love them before they learn how to be kind, or attentive, or responsible. You love them by teaching them to be those things, and you love them when they try and fail to be those things. You love them by keeping them fed and warmed and comforted and safe. You love them by guiding them to become the kind of bird you want to be, and the kind of bird you would fall in love with.”

“This will change?” said her daughter.

“It can,” said her mother. “I won’t lie – there are ‘apapane who prefer to remain selfish and flighty and irresponsible. But it will change. You’ll be surprised at how fast it does.”

“Did I do the same thing when I was newly hatched?” asked her daughter.

“Of course you did,” said mother, “and so did I. But you grew into a bird I’m proud of and delighted to be with. Now if you could use some help with the chicks?”

“Oh, yes,” sighed her daughter. “They’re all hungry again, and I could use the help.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it and the story as I told it do not precisely match.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: How to Build a Nest – Or Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32
Matthew 21:23-32

A lot of birds build nests of some kind. Some are very simple, just a scrape in the earth. Others don’t build a nest at all, including the oh-so-brave manu-o-ku, which simply lays an egg on a branch. Some build pretty complicated nests. The ‘amakihi makes a very complex nest, and only the expectant mother does the building. Among the ‘apapane, both mother and father work at it. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

An ‘apapane couple was very excited because two of their children, both males, had found wives and decided it was time to hatch some eggs and fledge some chicks. These were their first, um, grandbirds, and that makes both people and ‘apapane very happy.

What they weren’t happy about was how the preparation was getting along.

Their first son flew over with his wife and they asked, “How’s the nest building going?” The younger couple looked around in embarrassment for a bit before they confessed that they hadn’t started. “How are you going to lay any eggs if you haven’t got a nest?” demanded the hopeful Tutu.

“Go build your nest,” said the grandfather (he hoped) to be, and to his surprise the younger couple said, “No.”

“What?”

“No. We’re going to rough it, like the koa’e kea. We’re going to keep it simple. Find a hollow in the rock. That will be enough.”

The parents were appalled as they flew off. A few moments later, the other son and his wife flew by.

“Please tell me you’re getting a nest ready,” said the grandmother-to-be.

“Oh, absolutely,” said her son, and his wife agreed. “It will be ready well before time.”

“What a relief,” said grandfather-to-be as they flew off. “At least we’ll have some grandchildren raised in a proper nest.”

Strange things happen among birds – and among people, too, but these are birds. That first couple, who were going to lay their eggs in a hollow in the rock, like a koa’e kea? They checked out those holes in the cliffs, and they looked uncomfortable and they felt uncomfortable. Shortly afterward, they were flying about the forest collecting mosses, twigs, and leaves. The nest took shape high in an ohi’a tree.

The other brother and his wife started work on a nest, but they got tired and bored. They barely poked at it. When they left it for a day or two, it began to come apart. No nest took shape. And they didn’t lay any eggs that year.

The ‘apapane grandparents were disappointed, but they were also thrilled. One son and daughter-in-law had said they wouldn’t prepare, but then they did, and raised three much-loved chicks to fledglings and adults. The other couple said they would get ready, but they didn’t, and it would be some time before they had their first nest, and eggs, and children.

“If you do the things to get ready,” said the grandmother to her grandchicks, “it comes out right.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write theses stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation on Sunday morning. The story as you read it does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Who Deserved More

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brown bird with lighter belly feathers, and some red feathers starting to appear. perched on greenery with a red flower filled with nectar.

September 20, 2026

Jonah 3:10-4:11
Matthew 20:1-16

‘Apapane chicks don’t all behave the same way, just as human children don’t all behave the same way. You have loud ones and quiet ones, greedy ones and hungry-but-not-pushy ones, polite ones and brash ones.

This ‘apapane nest had an assortment. There was one who was greedy and pushy, and mom and dad had to push him out of the way quite often to feed his brother and sister. The sister was pretty pushy herself, but not quite willing to get into wrestling matches with her brothers. The last brother, though, was quiet and polite. He waited patiently for mom or dad’s attention, ate his caterpillars with every sign of appreciation, and even chirped, “Thank you.” Politely!

His parents had had a number of chicks by then, and most of them had been pretty pushy when mealtimes came along. They didn’t quite know what to do with a polite chick, but they made sure they he was fed the same as his brother or sister, despite his siblings’ best efforts to get in front all the time.

They all grew, of course, and they learned to fly. The pushy brother and sister alternated between pushing to the front and loudly squawking that it was too scary to fly. The polite brother kept his beak shut, watched his parents closely, and when it came time for that first leap into the air managed a very creditable first flight. His brother and sister protested that they would have been better if they’d gone first, but they hadn’t, so…

The days drew on, and it was time to leave the nest. Mother and Father continued to feed them from time to time, but they were finding their own food, and they were getting better and better at it. The pushier siblings did, in fact, excel in seeking out new blossoms, bugs and caterpillars. The polite one tended to follow along behind and not get in anyone’s way. He ate just as well, though.

They were out of the nest, and the rambunctious chicks were making a somewhat rambunctious life. The polite one stayed near his parents, and to their surprise, kept making occasional flutters with his wings at them. That was a sign that he’d like something to eat – but he was fully capable of finding food himself. One day Mother just had to ask.

“What’s the matter? Why are you asking us for food? Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” said the polite son. “I just thought it made sense.”

“You thought what made sense?” asked Mother, who didn’t know.

“I’ve tried to be a good son,” he said. “I’ve tried to be calm and polite. I’ve tried to learn things quickly and well. I’ve tried to treat you, my brother and sister, and all the birds well.”

“And I appreciate it,” said Mother, who still didn’t understand what that had to do with wanting to be fed.

“Shouldn’t there be a reward for that?” asked his fledgling son. “Like more feedings, perhaps?”

“Feedings aren’t a reward, son,” said Mother. “Your father and I love you, and we love your brother and sister, so we’ve given you what you need. And you’ve grown. You’ve learned. You’ve thrived. Nothing we’ve done was intended to reward any of you. We’ve seen to your needs.

“But now you don’t need what you’re asking for. You have our love always, and it’s bigger than you know. But you need to be your own bird, and that’s how we’ll love you today: by giving you what you need. Again. Go find your own nectar, and enjoy it.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full beforehand, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as you read it and as I told it are not identical.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The I’iwi Who Liked Spiders

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
A red orange bird with a very long curved orange beak perched in a tree.

September 13, 2026

Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35

I’iwi can be rather opinionated birds. They can also be very grumpy about their opinions. In their opinion, for example, blossoms full of nectar should be sampled by… me. That is, whatever i’iwi happens to have noticed those blooms at the time. ‘Apapane and ‘amakihi can go to another tree. Another i’iwi might be tolerated. Might. If they behave themselves. And aren’t greedy.

Most of all, though, they had to act like a proper i’iwi, and sip from the floral nectar. That’s how a proper i’iwi behaved. Most of all, they didn’t go looking for spiders.

I’iwi do eat spiders, but not very often by choice. They like the liquid diet of nectar, and they’ve got a long beak and a long tongue to drink it with. If a butterfly or moth happens by, they’ll eat it. They’ll fill in with other bugs as well. Far down the list, though, is spiders.

It’s something they’ll eat, but only if they’re really hungry.

Except for one i’iwi, who just so happened to really enjoy spiders. I don’t know why he did. He did. I’m pretty sure that if he explained it to me, I wouldn’t understand it, because I don’t like eating spiders. And I’m pretty sure that if I explained it to you, you wouldn’t understand it, since I suspect you’re not big fans of eating spiders.

If you are and I got that wrong, I apologize. You can explain it to me later.

The older i’iwi watched this younger one enthusiastically eating spiders with a certain feeling of, “Ick.” Most of them were content to let him enjoy his meals. After all, if he was eating the spiders, there was more nectar for them, wasn’t there?

One of those older i’iwi, though, got really annoyed with it all. He took it upon himself to fly over and grumble, “Knock it off, spider-lover. No more of this. Eat like a real i’iwi. Drink nectar.”

“I do,” said the i’iwi who liked spiders. “I drink plenty of nectar.”

“But you’re also eating all these spiders,” said the grumpy one. “Stop it.”

“I like spiders,” explained the younger i’iwi, which was really all that could be said, wasn’t it?

“No proper i’iwi likes spiders,” pronounced the elder. “No sensible i’iwi would make a full meal out of them. No real i’iwi prefers spiders to nectar.”

“And that’s how it is, youngster,” said that older i’iwi. “If you keep eating spiders like this, you’re not a real i’iwi, and we’ll treat you like a stranger and a nuisance.”

Word flashed around the little community of i’iwi about what had been said, and they called a very unusual little gathering to set matters straight. The older grumpy bird and the younger spider-eating bird perched before the flock.

“Do you eat spiders by choice?” they asked the younger one, who had to say, “Yes.”

“Did you tell him that eating spiders by choice meant he wouldn’t be a real i’iwi?” they asked the older one, who proudly said, “Yes.”

One of the grandmothers fluttered her wings at this, and said, “Diet does not make an i’iwi an i’iwi, or not an i’iwi. We’ve all eaten things we’d prefer not when times are lean, and we’ve all found that some of them tasted better than we’d expected. You’re just as much as i’iwi as anyone, youngster,” she said, “even if you eat things I’d rather not.”

“You, however,” she told the grumpy bird, “have taken it upon yourself and yourself alone to say what makes an i’iwi and what doesn’t. That’s something an i’iwi may do and remain an i’iwi, but they should not do it. The forest is hard enough with wind and rain and dry times. We do not need to make barriers for one another.

“You are an i’iwi. But you have not behaved like an i’iwi should. Make your apology to your cousin, and never let us hear you have done this again.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full each week, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story you just read is not precisely the way I told it.

Photo of an i’iwi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Rules for Love

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments
Two small yellow birds on stony ground.

September 6, 2026

Romans 13:8-14
Matthew 18:15-20

The two saffron finches were young. They liked each other a lot. In fact, they liked each other so much that they called it love. They just didn’t know how. That made for a certain amount of disappointing conversations, and gifts that the other one didn’t enjoy, and careless words that launched long periods of hurt silence – saffron finches aren’t much for big fluttering fights.

One day each bird flew back to its parents with a question.

But not the same question.

“How can there be rules for love?” asked the young female. “He wants me to follow rules for love.”

“How am I supposed to love without knowing what the rules are?” complained the young male to his parents. “She just wants me to know what love is and do it.”

Neither set of parents really knew how to answer these questions. The male’s parents liked to know what to do and what not to do. They liked things to be orderly and predictable. They liked to say, “Eat these seeds, but not those seeds.” They liked to say, “Don’t fly when the clouds are a very deep gray.”

The female’s parents, on the other hand, preferred to start with a big idea and work their way down to the way to make it happen. They liked look at the clouds, consider the wind at the moment, and take an experimental flight to see if a storm was kicking up. They liked to try different seeds at different times to see if seeds changed with the season – which they do. They liked to start with the idea of love, and try things they believed would be loving, and, if they had to, make changes.

The male’s parents liked to know what to do to be loving.

In the absence of help from their parents, the young saffron finches fluttered at one another in confusion. “How can I know what you’ll like without a rule?” the male asked the female.

“How can a rule tell me what you’ll like next week or next month?” the female asked the male.

They were pretty well stuck.

“What are we going to do?” they asked one another.

It just happened that a kolea overheard. “Can you tell him the things that make you feel loved?” he asked the female. Well, she could, she thought. And she did. When she had, the kolea asked the male, “Can you make some rules or guides from that?” Well, he could. And he did.

“Now for you,” said the kolea to the male. “Can you assume that what she does, she does because she’s trying to show you she loves you?” Well, he could, he thought. And he would. “Can you tell her honestly and gently when something she does isn’t as loving as she hopes?” Well, he could. And he would. “And can you remember those things that didn’t work, and try new things that might work, and do the things that did work?” Yes, she could. And she would.

“It doesn’t matter whether you love from rules or from ideas,” said the kolea. “What matters is that you love, and trust in love.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not match the story as I told it.

Photo of two saffron finches by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Shallow Cormorant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 30, 2026

Exodus 3:1-15
Matthew 16:21-28

Unusually, today’s story isn’t about a Hawaiian bird. It’s about a bird you’ll find along the coasts, lakes, and rivers of North America. You’ll find them way up north in Canada or Alaska in summer, and as far south as the shores of Mexico in winter. It’s called the double-crested cormorant, and I remember seeing these birds when I was a child in New England.

Like the noio or the koa’e kea of Hawai’i, the cormorant fishes for its food. Both the noio and the koa’e kea, however, fly over the sea and dive down to catch fish when they see them. The cormorant swims along the surface, then swims with its webbed feet down beneath the surface to catch fish. They’ll stay under up to half a minute, which is a long time to hold your breath, and they can swim quite deep.

Well. They can. There was one cormorant, however, who simply refused to dive deeper than a few feet. You know how it is. Some dives had gone badly for him, and he’d come up coughing and gasping for breath. “Try it again,” someone had said, without saying anything about how it could go better, and down he’d gone, got confused and frightened, and come up again gasping and coughing.

“No more of that,” he said. “It’s shallow dives for me.”

Other cormorants would swim 25 or 30 feet down in the ocean water, but not him. No more than five feet. Maybe six. He might dab his beak down a little farther to get a fish, but no more. Definitely no further.

One day he surfaced from a dive next to a friend. He’d already eaten the fish he’d caught four feet below the surface. His friend, however, was wrestling with a much bigger fish. It took some work and a couple tosses in the air to get it lined up right, but finally he ate it and looked really satisfied.

“You’re lucky,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t see fish that big very often.”

His friend was surprised and a little puzzled. “I see them all the time,” he said. “They’re right down near the bottom.”

“Oh, the bottom,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “You’re likely to find anything there.”

“You don’t go to the bottom?” said his friend. “I thought everybody did.”

“I dive as far as I need to,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t need anything on the bottom.”

“But there’s these amazing fish down there,” said his friend. “Wait here; I’ll bring one up.”

He dove down, leaving the shallow cormorant alone on the surface… briefly. Because he came up quickly, carrying another of the big fish in his beak, and looking forward to sharing it with his friend. On the surface, though, he was alone. He saw a black speck heading for a perching rock. The shallow cormorant had flown away.

He asked his auntie about it later, who sighed. “Some birds are like that,” she said. “They’re content with what’s obvious, what’s on the surface, what’s easy. If you go deeper, you discover things, but they don’t want to know those things. They’re content with the surface.

“But if you go deeper, you find delights you otherwise would never have known.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a double-crested cormorant by Eric Anderson.

Story: Body of Nene

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Nine gray, white, and black nene (Hawaiian geese) along a shore - two in the water, the rest standing on land.

August 23, 2026

Romans 12:1-8
Matthew 16:13-20

He’d done it at last. He’d graduated from nene school. He’d learned to forage, and he’d learned to fly even better, and he’d learned to fly in formation. He knew everything there was to know about living well as a nene.

I have to say that that’s a pretty good accomplishment for anyone moving on in school.

So now he formally joined the flock as a certified adult nene. He was pretty young, but he was also pretty confident. After all, he’d done very well in school. What more was there to being a nene?

It turned out that the little flock had a leader. That surprised him, and it shouldn’t have. Learning to fly in formation, there had always been a bird, usually the teacher, at the very front of the “V” of the flock. The same thing was true among the adults in flight. Somebody had to be at the point.

“Welcome to the flock, youngsters,” said the leader kindly. “We’re so glad to have you here with us and to increase the flock. Let me just introduce you to some of our specialists here.”

The young nene was caught again. Specialists? But he held his tongue – for a moment, anyway.

“This is our ‘ohelo specialist,” started the leader, but the youngster interrupted.

“I know how to find ‘ohelo,” he said. “It’s easy.”

“We can all find ‘ohelo,” said the leader, “but she’s been able to spot it farther away than any of the rest of us. By all means tell us when you find ‘ohelo, but the chances are that she will spot it first.”

The youngster thought that seemed unlikely, but he didn’t say it.

“This is our pukiawe specialist,” continued the leader, “and he’s also really good at spotting ‘aiakanene.”

“I can do that, too,” interrupted the youngster again, and the leader calmly continued:

“We’ll find out if you can do that faster than him. Now, this nene is the best among us at forecasting the weather. If there’s a storm coming, she’s been great at telling us to find shelter in time.”

“Seriously, can’t the rest of you do that?” burst out the young nene. “It’s simple!”

“It’s simple when the clouds are getting tall and dark,” said the leader. “It’s not so simple when they’re white and fluffy.”

“Can’t any of you do anything?” demanded the youngster. “I can’t believe a flock would be so full of birds that can do only one thing.”

The young nene’s former teacher – who was also his auntie, since nene flocks are small – answered him. “Of course we can do all these things, nephew,” she said. “We can forage for ourselves, we can fly for ourselves, we can see danger coming for ourselves. We can all do that. You can do that. I know because I taught you.

“But some of us went beyond what all of us can do. They got really good at seeing storms coming, or spotting ‘ohelo in the lava field. I’m not quite as good at holding formation in a high wind, so I don’t take the lead when flying, but I am pretty good at teaching other fliers, so that’s what I do.

“Think of the flock as a nene made up of nene. Some have really enhanced their skills, and that means that all of us benefit from it. I can’t spot the ripe pukiawe as far away as he can, but on the other hand, he can’t teach how to find pukiawe as well as I can.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the leader said, “Welcome to the flock, young nene. Over time we’ll find out which of your skills we’re all grateful to receive. And you’ll find out which skills you’re grateful one of these other birds possesses and shares.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a small flock of nene by Eric Anderson.

Story: Settle Down, ‘Amakihi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A yellow bird taking off from a tree with green leaves and red blossoms.

August 16, 2026

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
Matthew 15:21-28

‘Amakihi aren’t the most social birds in the world. We’re used to seeing the flocks of myna around Hilo, and we’re used to seeing saffron finches in pairs. I’ve never seen more than one ‘amakihi at a time, which I grant you isn’t all that useful as information, because there could be six of them near me and if five of them are on the other side of some trees, I won’t see them. And probably haven’t.

That said, ‘amakihi do participate in mixed flocks of birds over the summer, and they are pretty mellow about other birds getting near their nests – but that is the time when they’re the most anxious and the most aggressive. When they’ve got eggs or young in the nests, they’re not very happy to have other birds about. Parents can be protective like that.

One first-time father was particularly eager to see that his eggs and then his hatchlings and then his fledglings stayed safe. He warned other ‘amakihi away from the nest, and he chased mejiro and ‘apapane. He even dared to chase i’iwi away, which is kind of unusual in the mountain forest. I’iwi are far more accustomed to chasing ‘amakihi than being chased, but fortunately the i’iwi was more amused than angered by it all. Besides, eggs are important, and so he kept a respectful distance after that.

The ‘amakihi kept it up as the youngsters learned to fly. It didn’t take all that long before they were flying with him and their mother about the forest. In a short time they had flown off for themselves, joining with some other young ‘amakihi and ‘apapane in the forest.

That’s when most ‘amakihi stop aggressively defending their nests. For whatever reason, he didn’t. Or rather, he did: he kept chasing birds away from a nest without eggs or young or anything. His wife was confused, and told him so. “I’m keeping the nest safe,” he said.

“Keeping it safe from what?” she asked.

“From everyone!” he said.

“Why? There’s nothing in it but sticks and grass,” she said.

“It’s got to be safe!” he said, and nothing she said changed her mind.

Nothing his auntie said changed his mind, either. He was so anxious and afraid. Nothing his tutu said – and you know he was would up if he wouldn’t listen to Tutu.

It was the i’iwi that got through to him. That same i’iwi he’d chased away months before fluttered over to perch just far enough to prevent a quick rush by the nervous ‘amakihi, who was fluffing up his feathers and getting ready to chase him anyway.

“Settle down, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “I’m staying away from your nest. But I’m confused. Why are you still protecting it so fiercely?”

“Nests are for protecting!” said the ‘amakihi, “especially from strange birds.”

“Nests are for protecting?” asked the i’iwi. “I thought eggs and chicks were for protecting. Was I wrong about that?”

“Eggs and chicks…” repeated the ‘amakihi, and suddenly the light flashed in his head. He looked at the empty nest, which would fall to pieces before it was time for eggs and chicks again, and then looked back at the i’iwi.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been foolish.”

“That’s all right, ‘amakihi,” said the i’iwi. “You can recover from foolishness. If you’d like, you can come fly with this flock I’ve found for the summer. There’s some birds who can spot nectar a mile away.”

The two birds flew off together.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. The story you have just read does not exactly match how I told it.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Wide World

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Two birds near each other in mown grass. One is dark brown with a yellow beak and feathery mask. The other is cream colored speckled with darker brown.

July 26, 2026

Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Over the next few weeks we’re likely to start seeing one of our famous Hawaiian birds again. We’re approaching the time of year when the kolea make their 3000 mile non-stop flight from Alaska to Hawai’i where, like sensible birds, they’ll spend the winter.

A myna and a kolea happened to be scrounging for worms and insects side-by-side one day. As you know, kolea are generally pretty quiet, and mynas are frequently pretty noisy. They didn’t much mind one another, though, poking through the grass stems to put together a good breakfast.

The myna, naturally, was the first to say anything. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for months.”

“A long way away,” she said. “Someplace that’s pretty cool in the middle of summer.”

“Oh, come on,” said the myna. “There’s no such place.”

“There is,” she said. “It’s a long flight, though. It took me four days to get there, and it’s taken me four days to get back.”

“Look, if you want to spin fables for me, go ahead,” said the myna, who was getting increasingly grumpy about all this. “The world isn’t that big.”

“It is,” she insisted. “It’s even bigger, as far as I can tell. There are coastlines and lands far, far away. I’ve even met birds who’ve come from other lands with other shores. It’s a big world.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed the myna.

“Go take a look,” said the kolea. “Fly as high as you can. You won’t see the shore where I spent the summer, but you’ll see at least one other island, and you’ll see a great big ocean.”

“I’m not going to stick around to be lied to,” grumped the myna, and he flew off to another lawn where there wasn’t a kolea to tell him stories. But her last words stuck. She’d seemed so sure and so sincere. It seemed incredible. At the least he should take her challenge and prove her wrong.

So he flew up along the slopes of Mauna Kea, bound for the sky above the summit. He’d never been there before, since he had all the seeds and worms he needed right here. Up he went, and to his surprise it got cold. Then the air got thin, and he had to work harder to keep his place in the air. He was a determined myna, though, and he kept going, until he could see the ocean all around the shores of Hawai’i Island. It seemed to go on forever, much further than he’d imagined.

And he could see the summit of Haleakala rising above the clouds on Maui.

He spiraled his way back down to the lawn where he’d disbelieved the kolea. She was back again, poking at the ground, making herself a good breakfast.

He broke the silence. “It is a big world, isn’t?”

“Bigger than I imagined,” she said. “I couldn’t believe there was anyplace like here the first time I made that flight.”

“I’m sorry I disbelieved you,” he said. “Could you tell me about the places you’ve been?”

And she did. The world was more wonderful and more amazing than he’d thought, and he was glad to know it.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation – so the story you read is not precisely how I told it.

Photo of a common myna (at left) and a kolea (Pacific golden-plover, at right) by Eric Anderson.

Story: One Loves

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Most of the frame contains a massive lava fountain, but also visible is a white bird with black bars near the end of its wings and a long thin white tail.

July 19, 2026

Psalm 86:11-17
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

The koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) loved to fly. She loved to fly over the sea, and to hover over the water before diving to capture a fish or squid. She loved to fly over the land as well, to feel the thermals lift her wings as she crossed from sea to shore. And of course, as a koa’e kea from Hawai’i Island, she loved to fly around the Kilauea summit, with all the excitement of the rising hot air and, from time to time, the thundering lava fountains.

When Kilauea has fountained recently, she’s tried to be there.

“You can’t love all of these,” said a grumpy friend. “Love isn’t like that. You love some things, but that means that you don’t love other things. You can’t love all those different airs.”

“But of course I love them,” protested our koa’e kea, but her friend repeated:

“You can only love one. Just one. Love is for one. Pick just one.”

That’s all her friend would say.

How was she to choose? She couldn’t imagine. Yes, flying over the water could be more challenging, because sometime the spray would leap toward her, but she liked that. Flying over bare rock gave her a lift, and flying among and around trees and branches gave her a thrill.

She supposed that she probably loved flying around a lava fountain the best, but that was mostly because it didn’t happen that often. She flew over water every day. Lava only fountained once or month or so. If it happened every day, it wouldn’t so special, and she thought she’d probably love it, but not quite as much.

And besides, as much as she loved flying around the fountains, she still loved the other flying. How could she choose one? She just wanted to weep.

“What are you sad about?” asked another friend, one who wasn’t quite as grumpy as the first friend.

“How can I choose what kind of flying to love?” she asked, and was very surprised when her friend said:

“Why would you?”

She explained what their other friend had said, and he shook his head in unbelief.

“Love is bigger than that,” he said. “I love all sorts of things and all sorts of birds. Sometimes I love them in different ways. I love squid, but I love to eat it. I love my parents, but I’m not going to eat them.”

The two birds laughed at that.

“I think you’ve got enough love in you for lots of things, and lots of birds, and lots of different kinds of air and flying. Besides, it’s all the same in the end. It’s the world we were given, and I say we can love all of it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said our koa’e kea. “I’ll love all of it. Come fly with me. Let’s have a lovely time.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of a koa’e kea in flight near a lava fountain by Eric Anderson.