Stories

Story: Imperfect

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

December 17, 2023

1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
Luke 1:46-55

She was making gingerbread cookies for the first time in her life – she wasn’t very old – and she was all excited about it. Her older brother had learned to make gingerbread cookies a few years before, and he’d got rather good at it.

This was her very first time.

She thought it was going pretty well, even if there sometimes seemed to be more flour on the counter than in the bowl. She might have miscounted the amount of ginger, too. She decided she’d better add some more to make sure there was enough. Yes. Just a little more. And a little more.

When she was cutting out the shapes – there were cookie cutters for people shapes, and for star shapes, and for reindeer shapes, and even for Christmas Tree shapes – she got things a little scrunchy. In transferring the cut-out cookies to the trays for baking, things got more disarranged. One poor gingerbread person lost their leg, and she tried to mash it back together.

Her older brother came by about this point and decided to make fun of her more oddly-shaped cookies. The two discussed it calmly and reasonably – well, no. The two of them were yelling by the time the cookies came out of the oven. Which might be why there were a little overdone.

She burst into tears.

Mother gathered her into her arms as she said, “They’re not perfect! They were supposed to be perfect!”

Indeed, they weren’t perfect. Some of the trees looked like they’d been through a windstorm. The mashed-together leg had come off in the baking. At least two of the stars had very bent points.

And, it had to be said, they were a little too brown. Not burnt, quite, but any longer in the oven and burnt they’d have been.

“They’re not perfect for Christmas!”

Mother, who thought about things like this, said, “Do you think Christmas is about being perfect?”

The girl said, “Isn’t it supposed to be?”

Mother told her that Jesus didn’t come into the world because it was perfect. It was full of people doing unkind, even cruel things to one another. Jesus came to show a better way, and help people find and live a better life here on earth and beyond. Jesus came to love the ones who didn’t think they were loveable.

“But my brother’s Christmas cookies are perfect.”

Brother, who was feeling sorry he’d picked on his sister, told her that they certainly hadn’t been perfect the first time. “I really burnt the first batch,” he said. “And the second batch wasn’t much better.”

“Let’s see how yours are,” said mother, and all three of them took a bite. She had, in fact, put in far too much ginger.

“I don’t think these are very good, Mommy,” she said, but she wasn’t crying.

“Not so good,” Mother agreed. “Shall we try again?”

In the meantime, her older brother reached for a second cookie. Mother and sister looked at him.

“I like lots of ginger,” he said. “Can I have the recipe?”

Imperfect we may be, but there’s love for us, too.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

When I tell these stories, I tell them from what I remember of the story I’ve written. And… I make new things up as we go through. There will always be a difference between what I’ve prepared and what people hear.

The image of gingerbread people cookies is by ParentingPatch – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24263325.

Story: Seeing Greatness

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 10, 2023

2 Peter 3:8-15a
Mark 1:1-8

A pueo went soaring one sunny afternoon. He’d been hunting most of the morning and he was no longer hungry. So he just flew, holding his wings and tail out, gliding with the wind, rising and falling on the steady breeze flowing between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea.

As he went, he wondered about greatness.

It started as he looked at the mountains to either side of him. Mauna Kea, he knew, was a little bit higher, and it wears a snowy crown sometimes in winter that’s easy to see from most of the island. Mauna Loa, though – well, it gets snow, too, but it can be hard to see, and it isn’t as high. From the air, though, the pueo could see that over a third of the island is on Mauna Loa’s slopes.

The pueo dipped down over Kilauea and circled around its trees. Some of those ohi’a trees rise a hundred feet into the air, with broad trunks and strong stems. Truly those would have to be considered great.

Other ohi’a grew just a few feet high, but they grew from places which had been solid rock just a few years before. Was it greater, the pueo wondered, to grow broad and tall in good soil, or to grow just a little bit when you had to make the soil yourself?

The pueo saw lava flowing, building up the island. And the pueo saw ferns growing in old lava flows, breaking it up into sand and soil. Which was greater, he wondered?

He saw i’iwi dipping into ohi’a blossoms with their long curved beaks, and saw ‘apapane work harder for nectar with their shorter beaks. But he also saw ‘apapane eat the bugs that also sought out the nectar, while the i’iwi passed them by. Which was greater, the pueo wondered, to have a beak so admirably shaped for nectar, or to have a beak that allowed you a wider diet? Even if it was bugs?

Which was greater, the ocean or the land? The lava flows pushed the island further out, but the ocean wore down the shorelines. Which was greater?

Which was greater, the rain or the sun? Absent one or the other, green things would not flourish, and the creatures would go elsewhere.

Which was greater? He wondered and he flew.

Greatness, he decided, can be found wherever you look. The greatness he preferred, in the end, was the greatness that built things up and made new things.

by Eric Anderson

Author’s note: A Pueo is a Hawaiian owl, a relative of the short-eared owls found in many places.

Watch the Recorded Video

I tell these stories from what I remember about what I’ve written – which means, of course, that I don’t always remember it quite the same.

Photo of an ohi’a in blossom – a small one – by Eric Anderson.

Story: In the Rain

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

December 3, 2023

1 Corinthians 1:3-9
Mark 13:24-37

The heavy rain this past week put me in mind of some hard rain that fell on some young ‘elepaio. I would guess you weren’t happy about all that hard rain? Well, neither were the ‘elepaio.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a bit.

When the eggs hatched, there were two chicks in the ‘elepaio nest, a brother and sister and within just a couple of days they were constantly hungry, keeping their parents jumping to bring them food. Mother would stay with them while father fetched food, then father would stay with them while mother fetched food. As they got older (and hungrier) both parents would be away finding them things to eat.

One day when both had been away for what seemed like a long time but was probably five minutes (they were both hungry), brother said to sister, “What good are parents?”

“Yeah!” said sister. “Parents are so slow.”

Mother returned to feed them a moment later, and then father, so with their mouths full they said nothing more. But I have to admit that from time to time over the next few days they continued with these complaints when they were hungry.

“What good are parents?”

“Parents are so slow.”

“I’m so hungry!”

And so on.

A little over two weeks after hatching, they spread their wings to fly. They didn’t go far – just a couple branches away – but they didn’t go back to the nest, either. They started gathering their own food from the leaves around them, and their parents continued to feed them on their branch. They continued to complain if it took more than a minute.

“What good are parents?”

“So slow!”

And so on.

That’s when the clouds opened up and the rain streamed down on the ohi’a forest. Even sheltered by the ohi’a leaves, the two young ‘elepaio were soon soaked and cold and miserable.

“What good are parents?” said sister to brother.

“I’m so cold!” said brother to sister.

That’s when mother hopped over to brother and led him toward the tree trunk, where there were more leaves overhead. She got him to crouch down on the branch and spread her wings over him. Father and sister were soon alongside, with father’s wings over sister, keeping her warm as the rain cascaded down.

“Parents are the best,” said sister to brother.

“They’re right there when you need them,” said brother to sister.

I’m afraid not all ‘elepaio parents are right there with their chicks, or all human parents with their children – it’s not just rain that makes the world an uncomfortable place. What I can tell you is that God is always there when you need, and we shelter beneath God’s wings when it’s wet, and cold, and dark in the night.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and tell them in worship from memory. Memory plus… re-creation. What you read and what you hear will not be the same.

Photo of an ‘elepaio by Dominic Sherony – Hawaii Elepaio (Chasiempis sandwichensis), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52150179.

Story: The Ambitious ‘Apapane

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

November 26, 2023

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Matthew 25:31:46

Do you know what it means to be ambitious? An ambitious person wants to do better things, and then better things, and then better things. An ambitious person might want to be rewarded for this by other people, with money, perhaps, or recognition, or more responsibility, or just simply with applause.

This story is not about an ambitious person. It’s about an ambitious ‘apapane.

Gazing over the summit of Kilauea, he couldn’t help but notice the koa’e kea soaring about on the rising warm air of the volcano. He determined to outdo the koa’e kea at soaring. He spent hours and days and weeks with his wings extended, carefully catching every breath of air.

But an ‘apapane’s wings are not the same shape or size as a koa’e kea, and he found himself either falling into an ‘apapane’s normal quick wing beats and a brief descent with wings closed, or… well, he found himself falling.

He briefly considered becoming an great ‘io, but he knew what his feathers tasted like from cleaning and preening them with his beak, and they didn’t taste good, so fortunately he didn’t become the first predatory ‘apapane.

He watched the ‘elepaio tapping tree limbs to find bugs and spiders, and he thought, yes, this would work. There must be some difference between an ‘elepaio’s beak and an ‘apapane’s, though, because the first time he tapped a tree it gave him such a pain. The second time it felt like he might turn his beak all the way around to the back of his head.

He was sitting there with a sore beak when his grandmother turned up.

“Grandson, what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m trying to outdo the ‘elepaio,” he said.

“Really?” she said. “How is that going?”

“I’ve got a sore beak.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Why are you trying to outdo the ‘elepaio?”

“I’m trying to be better and better and better than I am now,” he said. “I’ve got ambition.”

“So what else have you tried?” she asked.

He told her about trying to soar like a koa’e kea and admitted that he’d considered hunting like an ‘io. “I’m thinking about fishing like a noio next,” he said.

“You don’t eat fish,” she said.

“Perhaps I could be a better upside-down feeder than an i’iwi?” he asked.

“At least you’ve got close to the right feathers for that,” said his grandmother. “Have you ever considered getting better and better and better at the things you already do well?”

In fact, he hadn’t. His imagination had been entirely on being better than other birds, not getting better than himself.

“Try getting better and better and better at the things you do,” said his grandmother. “Let the ‘io and the koa’e kea be good at their things. None of them will ever be as good an ‘apapane as you.”

Be better and better and better at being you, my friends. Be better and better and better at being you.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory – well, from memory and from re-creation. It won’t and doesn’t sound the same as the prepared text.

Photo of an ‘apapane and an ‘ohia blossom by Eric Anderson.

Story: Storing Up

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

November 12, 2023

Amos 5:18-24
Matthew 25:1-13

She was young, young enough that she took a nap every day. She was old enough to think that she didn’t need a nap every day, and she played hard enough that in mid-complaint about taking a nap every day, she’d fall asleep.

It didn’t stop her from complaining about it the next day, but I’m sure I did the same thing when I was that age.

Strangely, it was going to be her first Thanksgiving with a big group of her family. She had been born while her parents were living at quite a distance from grandparents and aunties and uncles and a big crowd of cousins. She’d only met a few of them, and only a household at a time: a couple of grandparents. An auntie and a cousin.

Thanksgiving promised to be a big crowd. She was all excited.

In the couple weeks before Thanksgiving, her parents started buying extra food for the things they’d bring to share: flour and sugar and eggs and pumpkin for pies. “Why are you getting those things?” she asked. “So we’ll have enough to share,” said her parents. “We don’t want to run out, do we?”

Oh, no, we don’t want to run out.

That took a new meaning about a week before Thanksgiving, because as the family was returning from some errands, the car ran out of gas. I guess everything had been so busy that the didn’t pay attention to the gas gauge. It all worked out fine. Some friends brought some gas so they could get to a gas station, and they got home a little later than expected, but it was barely an adventure.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The car ran out of gas,” said mother.

“Is that what happens when you don’t have enough?” she asked.

“It is with a car,” said father.

A couple days later she was all upset and started to cry.

“What’s wrong?” asked father and mother both.

“I don’t want to run out!” she sobbed.

“Run out of what?” they asked.

“I don’t want to run out of love on Thanksgiving!” she wailed.

“How are you going to run out?” asked mother, and she said, “Like the car! Or like falling asleep when I don’t want to nap!”

(I should probably mention that this was happening around nap time, which probably isn’t a surprise.)

“Tell you what,” said father. “We’ll see that you get filled up.”

“What?” she said.

“That’s right,” said mother. “We’ll take time each day to fill you up with love. You’ll have plenty of love for Thanksgiving.”

“How?” she asked, but you probably know the answer. Her parents gave her hugs, and they told her how much they loved her. They praised the cool and clever things she did, and when she misbehaved, they told her they loved her and how to do things better. They played games. They sang songs.

When Thanksgiving came she didn’t run out of love for her grandparents, or her aunties and uncles, or her big crowd of cousins. Nope. She didn’t run out of love at all.

She did skip her nap. She fell asleep in the car on the way home, but I’m sure it was because she was full of pie.

She never ran out of love at all.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories, then tell them from my memory of what I’ve written. Oh, and I improvise along the way, so what I wrote and how I tell it can be very different.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Story: Big Cloud

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

November 5, 2023

Joshua 3:7-17
Matthew 23:1-12

It was a Big Cloud, with a capital B and a capital C. There have been bigger clouds in the history of the world, but this one rivaled the clouds of hurricanes and typhoons. It swept across the Pacific Ocean with a kind of ponderous majesty, with the trade winds gently carrying it along. Other smaller clouds would try to go north or south to get out of its way. If they succeeded, they breathed a sigh of relief. If they failed, well, they became part of the Big Cloud.

It rained on the ocean as it sailed along, but warm sunlight ahead of it raised plenty of water vapor to replace what substance it lost and, in fact, to make the Big Cloud even Bigger. With a capital B.

In the distance it saw Hawai’i Island.

Some clouds accompanying it – after all, what cloud wouldn’t want to ride the Pacific Ocean trade winds? – warned the Big Cloud. “You see those mountains?” they said. “You want to turn aside for those mountains. Bad things happen to clouds that try to go through those mountains.”

The Big Cloud said nothing. It was the Big Cloud, after all, with a capital B and a capital C. What had a Big Cloud to fear from mountains?

“No, really,” they told it. “You’ll rain out on the slopes. You won’t make it through the saddle.”

The Big Cloud coughed, and it sounded like thunder.

“Make a turn to the south or the north,” they urged. “You can do it. Plenty of storms have done so before.”

The Big Cloud was not pleased, and its displeasure flashed in lightning bolts along its forward edges, like a giant electric frown.

“I will go my way,” it said. “I am the Big Cloud, and I go where I choose. I fear no mountains.” And the Big Cloud set its course right between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa – and actually over both of them, because the Big Cloud was so big it didn’t fit between them.

Rain fell here in Hilo, of course, and way up the Hamakua Coast to Honoka’a and Waipio Valley. Rain fell in Puna, drenching Pahoa and Nanavale and all the way down in Opihikao.

As the Big Cloud rained on the island, it stretched toward the saddle between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, with rain thundering down the rising slopes. “I will go my way,” it thundered.

But the other smaller clouds had been right. The rising slopes coaxed more and more rain from the Big Cloud, and didn’t lift moisture from the ocean to replace it. The Big Cloud became a big Cloud with only a capital C, and then a big cloud with no capitals at all. Then it was a medium cloud, and a small cloud, and by the time it got to Kona, it wasn’t a cloud at all.

The other clouds watched with sadness that the Big Cloud’s pride had prevented it from taking their advice.

“The Big Cloud was too proud,” said one.

“It certainly was,” said another. “Now it’s been rained away. Pride goes as the rain falls.”

If you ever hear a human being say something like, “Pride goes before a fall,” well, that’s true enough for people, but among the clouds they say, “Pride goes as the rain falls.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories and then tell them from memory – well, memory and improvisation. As a result, the story as written differs from the story as told.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Story: On the Wind

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

October 29, 2023

Deuteronomy 34:1-12
Matthew 22:34-46

He was a recently hatched pueo and he didn’t want to fly.

As far as he was concerned, nest living was plenty good. His father came by with food. His mother got it into bite-sized bits that he, well, bit. He had two sisters in the nest with him and their mother stayed with the three of them. When it was cold her feathers spread over them kept them nice and warm. When the sun got too strong during the day her wings gave them shade. When it rained they were all snug beneath her body and wings.

He didn’t mind leaving the nest. Once his legs were strong enough, he’d hop out and go exploring. So did his sisters. They didn’t go far so they didn’t find much except grass and rocks and more grass, but it made them feel like bold adventurers.

But he didn’t want to fly.

The problem was the wind. The nest was in a spot in the saddle between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea, and the mountains funneled the wind between their slopes and peaks so that it just howled them. When he’d first stood up to go exploring, a few stronger gusts had knocked him down three times. His legs got stronger after that so it didn’t happen again, but that wind kept going and he didn’t feel any better about it.

“If that wind is going to blow like that,” he said, “I’m not flying. The ground will work just fine for me.”

His mother didn’t quite believe him, so she ignored it when he said this. His sisters took this as an opening to tease him, so they did, but they didn’t take it seriously, either. “Not going to fly, right,” they told him as they settled down to sleep. “You’ll change your mind about that soon enough.”

But as they started to exercise their new-feathered wings, flapping them up and down and front and back, he didn’t do anything of the kind. “This is going to be so cool!” one of his sisters told him.

“Cold, more likely,” he said, “without Mom’s feathers to keep you warm.”

They day his sisters took their first flight, he stayed in the nest. “I’m not going to fly,” he told his mother. “As long as that wind is blowing, the ground is fine for me.”

She might have stayed to argue but her daughters were hopping up and down and squawking about taking their first flight, so she had to pay attention to them. It didn’t take long before all three were in the air, climbing away from the nest.

“As long as the wind is blowing like this,” he said again, “I’m staying on the ground.”

The wind, in fact, blew harder. He had to lean forward into it to stay upright. It dropped to almost nothing so that he stumbled and spread his wings for balance. In that moment the wind blew a great big gust that billowed under his wings and lifted him into the air.

He was so startled that he froze with his wings still extended, rather than folding them right there and getting an uncomfortable return to the ground. He soared higher up, the wind lifting him without so much as a wingbeat. With some small movements of his tail feathers, he turned one way and another, rose up and swooped down.

When he returned to the ground and the nest, his sisters and mother were there. “You’re not going to fly, huh?” his sisters teased.

“The wind is still blowing,” said his mother.

“It lifted me up,” said her son. “I didn’t think it would do that.”

His mother nodded. “Welcome, son,” she said, “to creatures who are held on the wind.”

There are plenty of uncomfortable and even scary things in the world. Some of these things – like God – are much bigger than we are. They may make us feel overwhelmed. And some of these things – it’s best to figure out what they are – will be there to lift us up and help us fly. One of those great powers is God. The Spirit blows as it will, it’s said, and the Spirit blows to help us fly.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I don’t read them when I’m telling them. My memory leaves things out and my creativity adds things, so what you read and what you hear will not be the same.

Photo of a pueo in flight by HarmonyonPlanetEarth – Pueo (Hawaiian Owl)|Saddle Rd | 2013-12-17at17-45-012. Uploaded by snowmanradio, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30241884.

Story: That’s Mine

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

October 22, 2023

Exodus 33:12-23
Matthew 22:15-22

‘Amakihi are generally inoffensive birds. They fly with other birds, they feed with other birds, and they even allow other birds to get pretty close to their nests – though they’ll chase off a bird that gets closer than, say, about three feet.

One ‘amakihi, however, must have been watching i’iwi, perhaps, or more likely people, because he chose and ohi’a tree and said, “That’s mine!”

I told a story a while ago about an i’iwi trying to protect an ohi’a tree and you might remember that it didn’t work. And I’ve told a story about an i’iwi trying to keep other birds away from a tree in blossom and how an ‘amakihi found a way that other birds could eat there, too. Those trees were in full blossom, with the scent of nectar drawing the honeyeaters of the forest in from all around. This tree, however, the one that the ‘amakihi chose as his? It was not at all tall, and barely had a flower on it. Nobody was terribly interested.

Except for this one ‘amakihi, who told everyone who came near: “It’s mine!”

He ate the bugs from it, and sipped nectar when it blossomed, but he couldn’t really feed himself entirely from this one tree, so he’d forage around the forest. As soon as he was satisfied, however, he’d be right back to his chosen tree, to chase away any bird that was getting “too close,” whatever that meant at the time.

“Why are you doing that?” asked his sister.

“The tree is mine!” he told her.

“How is the tree yours?” asked his father.

“It’s mine!”

That’s an argument you can have for a long time.

His grandfather came by and circled the little tree while he was perched there. He didn’t get too close, so his grandson didn’t get upset. He landed a little bit away in another small tree and called out, “Can we talk, grandson?”

The ‘amakihi wouldn’t even let his own grandfather perch in “his” tree, so he flew to where grandfather was.

“That’s your tree, is it?” asked grandfather.

“Yes, it is,” said the grandson.

“How did you plant it?” asked Tutu.

“I didn’t,” said the grandson.

“Then you must have watered it,” said Tutu.

He hadn’t done that, either.

“Or fed it to make it grow,” said grandfather, but the grandson hadn’t.

“All right then,” said the grandson, “maybe I can’t claim the whole tree. I’ll just claim this branch.” He flew over and perched on it, singing out, “It’s mine!”

Grandfather flew to another branch and said, “You must have done a lot of work to get it large enough to hold you.”

“This flower cluster is mine!”

“Well done for making it blossom!”

The grandson fell silent.

“Even among the humans, grandson, who argue about who owns what among the things of the Earth, and who turn some things into other things and who do make things grow where they didn’t, even among the humans, they know that they didn’t make the land, and they didn’t create the seeds, and their claims to own things are… a problem.

“You’re an ‘amakihi. You’ll build a nest and you’ll raise chicks. Even those won’t be ‘yours;’ they’ll be their own. Let it go, grandson. Let the tree be its own.”

“I think it’s a wonderful little tree,” said the grandson.

“Love it all you like,” said Tutu. “Let the tree be its own.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from my memory of what I’ve written. As a result, what I said in the recording may be very different from what I’d previously written.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Dominic Sherony – Hawaii Amakihi (Chlorodrepanis virens virens), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52150186.

Story: The ‘Akepa who Needed Comfort

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

October 15, 2023

Exodus 32:1-14
Philippians 4:1-9

The young ‘akepa was eager, so eager, to fly. He’d been fascinated by the idea ever since he first saw his father fly to the nest with food, and then fly away again to get more. As his wings feathers grew on his wings he got more and more excited, even if they did come in first as greenish-grey, the same color as his mother’s wings, and not the bright orange of his father. He didn’t worry about the color. He just wanted to fly.

His nest was a hole high up in a koa tree where a storm had brought down a big branch long before he was hatched. He poked his beak out from time to time to watch the other birds fly, and from time to time he’d stand on the edge and stretch out his wings and imagine what it was like. When the breeze ruffled his feathers he held his wings out to see what it felt like with the wind pressing against them. So many times he nearly hopped away to take to the open air, but somehow he refrained.

It might have had something to do with his sister, who was an hour older and, sadly, somewhat bossy. I’m an older child myself, and my younger brother would probably tell you that when I was young, I was somewhat bossy. “Don’t you do it!” she snapped at him. “You know your wings aren’t strong enough yet.”

“How do you know that?” he asked crossly.

“Because mine aren’t, and I’m older than you,” she said.

“By an hour.”

“It could be by a minute and they still wouldn’t be ready, and yours aren’t ready, so don’t go hopping out of the nest,” she said, and, well, they bickered.

I’m sure you never bicker with your brother or sister or friends, do you?

Both their parents were away from the nest one afternoon and he was perched on the edge of the hole in the tree watching some other birds when a small group of people walked through the forest below. He didn’t pay any attention to them – they didn’t fly, after all – when one of their cell phones rang. The ring tone was an electric guitar riff.

He’d never heard a noise like that before. It was loud – the phone was at top volume – and fierce, and harsh. Startled, he hopped up and away – but not backwards into the hole in the tree, but forwards into the open air. He desperately opened his wings, but found that his sister was right. He didn’t have the strength for level flight. Flapping desperately, he managed to slow himself down enough to grab some twigs close to the ground. There he huddled miserably beneath some leaves as his sister called from above.

His mother found him there not long afterward. “Get me back to the nest!” he begged. “I promise I won’t try to fly again!”

She looked him over and said, “How?”

There wasn’t a way for her to carry him, or for his father to carry him, or for the two of them together to carry him, and he knew it.

“Will you leave me here?” he asked.

“Your father and I are going to take care of you right here,” his mother said, “until your wings are strong enough to fly – which won’t be all that long. You’ll be less comfortable here than you would have been in the nest, and you’ll have to keep out of sight of the ‘io, but you’ll be fed and you will grow.”

That’s what happened. He wasn’t comfortable. The branch was drafty and the leaves let the rain through and the sun got plenty hot. Plus he could hear his sister calling “I told you so,” from time to time, which wasn’t very pleasant.

But then his father or mother would arrive with something to eat, and with some reassuring sounds, and the warmth of their feathers against his. He wasn’t comfortable, but he was comforted.

A couple days later he could fly just fine, and one more comforting thing happened. His sister, who’d been badly frightened when he fell from their nest in the hole in the tree, said she was sorry for calling “I told you so.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and from improvisation. This is a morning when the telling sounds rather different than the writing.

Photo of an ‘akepa by Tony Castro – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=56759511.

Story: The Loyal Myna

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

October 8, 2023

Isaiah 5:1-7
Matthew 21:33-46

While they were young, a myna and a saffron finch struck up a friendship. It wasn’t all that unusual, to be sure. Mynas and saffron finches hunt and peck for seeds and bugs and so on side by side quite often. Along the way they chat about this and that, that and this, at least until the flock of mynas gets riled up about something and start an argument among themselves.

This young myna didn’t much care for the myna arguments and even less for the major arguments, so she would hop off to one side with her friend the saffron finch, and the two of them would talk about food, and bugs, and the silly things mynas do, and the silly things saffron finches do, and the completely undecipherable things that humans do.

The myna liked her friend a lot. The saffron finch liked her friend a lot. Even when they weren’t talking about anything terribly important, they loved their time.

One of the mynas in the flock became, if not the leader, one of the more popular mynas among them. He was often loud and boisterous, and he tended to win the arguments. But he also got the mynas together. When a cat came by, he was the one who organized everyone to screech at it and dive at it until it went away. He kept an eye out for ‘io overhead and for mongoose on the prowl. If one of the mynas was missing, he’d search until he found them (which rarely took long; they tended to be behind a bush or under the eaves of a roof).

As time went on, he became more and more the leader of the flock, and all the other birds came to value his time and attention. That included the myna who was friends with the saffron finch. One of the things she’d talk to her friend about was the times when he’d talk to her.

“He’s an important bird,” said the saffron finch, before they went on to talk more about which was the best flavored bug that day.

One day, however, the leader myna hopped over to the myna who was friends with the saffron finch. “Hey,” he said, only with more myna screech to it. “I hear that you’ve got a friend who’s a saffron finch.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“No, that’s not right,” he told her. “Your friends should be mynas, not saffron finches. It’s one thing to put up with them – after all, they’re so small they don’t eat much – but it’s another thing to be friends with them. It’s time you dropped her. Tell her to stay away from you.”

“Why would I do that?” said the myna with a saffron finch for a friend.

“Because it’s what you should do,” said the leader myna, “and if you don’t, we can’t have you in the flock.”

At this moment the saffron finch landed nearby. The leader myna told her, “Say goodbye to your former friend. She’ll have her friends among the mynas now.”

“There’s no goodbye,” said the myna. “You’re my friend as long as you want to be.”

“I told you to drop her!” he said.

“You can say that all you want,” she replied. “I choose my friends, not you.”

“We’ll see what the flock has to say about that,” he said, and called them over. “This sad bird has a friend who’s a saffron finch,” he sneered to them. “Are we going to put up with that in our flock?”

The myna looked at her friends. She didn’t say anything. They looked at her, and they looked at their leader.

Unexpectedly, the saffron finch spoke up. “Don’t you have a friend who’s a spotted dove?” she asked one, who nodded. “And aren’t you friends with a yellow-beaked cardinal, and you with a northern cardinal?” she asked two more. They nodded as well.

“Are you going to let this bird choose your friends?” she asked, and all the mynas shook their heads.

That was the end of one myna’s leadership, and the continuation of a number of friendships, because of one loyal myna, and then many loyal mynas, in that flock.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them with a combination of memory and improvisation on Sunday mornings.

Photos of a myna (l.) and saffron finch (r.) by Eric Anderson.