Stories

Story: The Ambitious ‘Amakihi

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 31, 2022

Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-23
Luke 12:13-21

To you and I, an ‘amakihi nest doesn’t look that big. It’s sort of an irregular ball shape – it doesn’t look exactly like an egg, but you might possibly think, “Oh. It does look a little bit like an ‘amakihi egg, only larger.”

It might be large, but it’s still not large for us. Most ‘amakihi nests are a little bit larger than a softball. Made of grasses and twigs, they’ve got a bit of a cup shaped top to hold the two or three eggs.

A mother-to-be was pretty anxious about getting her nest ready for the eggs that she’d be laying. Her husband, sad to say, didn’t help much. Or at all. That’s not uncommon among the ‘amakihi of this island. He would bring materials and he would stay nearby to encourage her, but she did the selection and the weaving of all the grasses and twigs and fern leaves. It was her first nest, and she was absolutely determined that there would be no problems for her eggs. It was going to be safe and warm and dry.

So she started with the basic structure, and it widened out as the nest grew higher. When she got near the top, she began to form the rim around the little bowl shape where the eggs would lay. That’s when she got… worried about things.

“What if the eggs roll out?” she asked her husband when the nest seemed finished.

He looked at it carefully and said, “I don’t think it would. It looks like the nest I was hatched in.”

“I think they’d roll out,” she said.

“Do you want to make the sides higher?” he said.

“I do,” she said, and she set about it. This in turn made the nest start to expand outward because the sides had to be supported underneath. And they kept going up.

“I think that looks good,” her husband ventured one day. “I don’t think they’ll roll out of that.”

“But what if the hatchlings fall out?” she asked. “They can climb, right?”

The husband wasn’t sure.

“Higher,” she said, and the nest kept getting bigger.

The day came when she had to stop building because she had eggs to lay and it was time. She looked at them proudly resting at the bottom of the cup in the nest. “There,” she said. “You’re safe and I’ll keep you warm.”

Her husband looked down at her. He seemed far away. “Um. How is this going to work?” he asked.

“How is what going to work?”

“How are we going to feed the chicks?”

Her nest had become an oversized softball with a narrow hole in the top that led down into it – quite a long way for a small bird like an ‘amakihi. It was actually so far that if he strained his neck down and she strained her neck up they couldn’t actually touch.

“How are you going to get out to eat?” he asked.

The sides were going to be an effort to climb. She’d struggled, in fact, to get to the bottom to lay her eggs.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that we’re going to have make some changes.” She looked at the eggs below her. “That is, can you make the changes?”

“Just tell me what to do,” he said.

“Let’s start by pulling away the top – at least until I can see out,” she said. And that’s what they did – until the nest that was built for ultimate safety was actually fit to use.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

In the recording above, the story is told from memory of this text. It is rather different.

Drawing of 2 ‘amakihi by Frederick William Frohawk – The Birds of the Sandwich Islands (1890-1899), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36614147.

Story: The Suspicious Noio

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
July 24, 2022

Genesis 18:20-32
Luke 11:1-13
 
The young noio was hungry pretty much all the time. That’s not all that uncommon for a young noio, of course. He was growing very fast, going from just a little thing at hatching to about the size and weight of an adult in three weeks. At three weeks’ end he weighed six and a half times what he’d weighed when he broke the shell of his egg.
 
So he ate. A lot.
 
You and I wouldn’t find his diet very appetizing, but he certainly thrived on it. His parents would fish in the ocean, slurping down the fish and squid into their bellies. Then they’d go back to the nest, where they’d open their beaks and he’d poke his beak into their mouths. And then, well, the food would return.
 
Yeah, I know. Yuck. I’m glad we don’t do it that way, either.
 
To the young noio, however, this was how it was done. This was the way to eat. This was tasty (I know, yuck) and nutritious and, more than anything else, it was really successful. I mean. Imagine eating enough in three weeks to grow six times your size. That’s impressive.
 
It still took some time for the feathers to grow out and for his wing muscles to develop, so he took his first flight when he was six weeks old. The first flight was a little ragged, but he soon got better. He loved being out in the air, and zooming low over the sea, and coming back to the nest.
 
For some weeks, though, his parents continued to feed him. I know. Yuck. But he had to develop his flying skills before he could develop his food-finding skills. Noio don’t dive into the water to catch food. They fly low over the surface and pluck it from the water.
 
It turns out that for this young noio, that was a problem. He had no problems with the flying skills. But his first reaction to seeing a school of fish in the water below was… Yuck.
 
“That’s what we eat,” said mother.
 
“You have got to be kidding,” said her son. “That’s disgusting. Is there anything else?”
 
“Well,” she said, “there’s muhe’e (that’s squid). Shall we try those?”
 
I know. Squid. Yuck. As it happens, the young noio agreed with us.
 
“That’s even worse!” he said. “I can’t believe I have to spend the rest of my life eating these disgusting things!” He wouldn’t even try to catch one in his beak.
 
Mother and father both tried to persuade him that he should at least try these things, that they really were tasty, and that he’d been eating them without knowing it since he hatched (I know, yuck), but he was not persuaded. He kept feeding the way he’d always known (yuck) and wouldn’t even consider catching a fish.
 
While his parents were out fishing for themselves (and for him) and trying to think of something they could do, tutu came by. His grandmother had been very pleased and proud of him, and her daughter had asked her advice. She came right to the point.
 
“So you think your parents are lying to you?” she asked.
 
“Lying?” he said.
 
“So you think they’d offer you bad food when you’re hungry?” she asked.
 
“Bad food?” he said.
 
“So you think they don’t know how to show you what is good?” she asked.
 
He was silent.
 
“Have they done this before?” she asked.
 
“No,” he said. “Of course not.”
 
“Then why would they do it now?”
 
He said nothing.
 
“Fly with me,” said tutu noio.
 
When his parents got back to the nest, they found grandmother and grandson returned from his first successful fishing trip.
 
“I should have realized you wouldn’t lie to me,” he told them. “Now I know that you didn’t.”
 
by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

When recorded, I was delivering the story from a memory of this text – which means they’re not the same. It is distinctive, however, for including the coining of the word, “tentacally,” which sadly, isn’t in the prepared text.

Photo of a noio (black noddy) by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane that Didn’t Learn to Sing

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 17, 2022

Amos 8:1-12
Luke 10:38-42

The ‘apapane are known for their cheerful songs. Walk around in the ohi’a forests of Hawai’i Island and you will hear them. They produce all kinds of sounds, combining them together into a range of calls and melodies that make the forest ring.

But there was one ‘apapane that never learned to sing, and it happened in this way.

As young human beings, you learn a lot of things in schools, right? It’s somewhat the same for many kinds of fish, of course. A lot of them spend nearly their entire lifetime in schools, so they’re probably the best educated of the world’s creatures, don’t you think?

The ‘apapane don’t have schools. They have flocks, of course, and they have families. They learn to sing in choruses.

The year’s fledgling singers came together with one of the senior singers to form a new ‘apapane chorus and learn the basic melodies and sounds of ‘apapane song. They were excited and they were enthusiastic. Many of them had learned things from their parents and older family members, and they wanted to sing more and better and louder songs.

One ‘apapane turned up with so much eagerness that it just went running over. “Aren’t you excited?” he asked his fellow youngsters. “I’m really excited. What do you think they’ll teach us?”

The ‘apapane he asked opened her beak to answer the question, but he went right on to say something else to another bird that had just joined them. “I think singing is just the best part of being an ‘apapane. It’s like flying, but with your voice. Don’t you think so?”

The new ‘apapane started to reply, but before he got out a peep the excited ‘apapane had turned back to the first bird and continued, “I’m really looking forward to those really high sweeping calls. You know the ones? I’m sure you do. Do you think the instructor will know them? How could she not? Do you know who she is? Has she arrived yet?”

And it went on.

The instructor turned up and, for a moment, there was silence as she spoke to the new choristers. “Welcome, friends,” she said. “We’re here to learn the art of ‘apapane music. I hope you’ll all enjoy this. Let’s start with…”

“Oh, I will definitely enjoy this!” piped up our eager fledgling. “And so will he. And her. And that one over there. Are you going to teach us with the Kilauea method or do you use the Maui variant? Are there any specialty classes? How about song composition? And what about…?”

And it went on.

The instructor and the other students waited for a while to see if he would stop on his own. And… he didn’t. He just went on. Eventually the chorus teacher shrugged her feathers and went on to demonstrate some basic calls, and then some trills, and then some melodies. As the chorus grew in strength and confidence, there was this constant undercurrent of… well.

“I’ve been really interested in flycatching technique, you know? Sometimes that can improve the voice, right? And the different nectars produce different songs, I’m sure. I’d volunteer for that experiment. But really it’s the classic songs that impress me. Do they impress you? Of course they do, you’re here to teach them. Which one will you start with? I think it would be the Pali song, but perhaps you like the rising notes of the Pu’u Trill.”

And it went on. He never stopped. As a result, he never actually learned to sing.

Now, I know that not everyone is always interested in learning new things. I know that not everyone gets excited about learning to sing, or fly, or skip, or cook, or do any one of the many things that make up our lives. But there is something to learn from the ‘apapane that never learned to sing. The first step in learning is to stop talking for a moment and listen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story as told is different from the story as written. You’ll probably notice that if you listen.

Photo of an ‘apapane – one who learned to sing, as much as we can tell – by Eric Anderson.

Story: Samaritans

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 10, 2022

Psalm 25:1-10
Luke 10:25-37

Mynas have a reputation. It’s a reputation that most of us wouldn’t want to have. They’re known for their loudness, and their squabbling, and their arguments, and their really loud arguments. Basically, they’re known for being petty, noisy, and aggressive. Not the reputation you’d like to have.

You will notice that attending church and listening to stories and songs and sermons isn’t on that list of things mynas are known for. But there was a myna who liked to perch near a church here on Hawai’i Island, and he actually stayed quiet to listen. He liked the stories that Jesus told.

One of his favorites was the story of the Good Samaritan. I’m sure you know it: after a man was beaten up by robbers, the person who came to help was not somebody the poor man knew, or one of the people that you’d expect to help. It was a Samaritan, somebody that you’d have thought would be among the attackers, not the helpers. It was the Samaritan that cleaned the man up, put bandages on him, brought him to a safe place where he could rest and recover, and paid an innkeeper to take care of him.

But who, wondered the myna, was a Samaritan in the bird world of Hawai’i Island? Who would you expect to make bad things worse? Who would surprise you if they turned around and helped? Who, by making things better, just might change the world around them?

Just then a cat came by. The myna perched on a branch above it, and instead of launching into a warning call, greeted the cat with a friendly chirp. Then he told the cat all about the Good Samaritan, about somebody who needed help getting help from the most unlikely somebody else.

“What do you think?” said the myna to the cat. “Could you be like the Samaritan? Could you help a bird instead of trying to catch it?”

The cat, I must say, was rather confused, but also intrigued. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I can see how that would make a big difference in the world, if I and my fellow cats started being helpful instead of being hunters.”

“I know somebody else who could be a Good Samaritan,” piped up another voice. It was a saffron finch who was perched in dense foliage of the same bush as the myna. Neither the cat nor the myna had noticed her.

“Who else could be a Good Samaritan?” asked the myna.

“You can,” said the saffron finch. “You know how you screech at us sometimes? You could stop doing that.”

“Now that I think of it,” said the cat, “there’s a few dogs that could definitely learn something from the Good Samaritan.”

“I guess,” said the myna slowly, “that nearly any of us could be the one who needs help. And I guess that nearly any of us could be the one who, against all expectation, is the one to bring help.

“We can all be a Good Samaritan.”

by Eric Anderson

Unfortunately, there was a technical error and the worship service of July 10, 2022, was not recorded.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Love You!

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

June 26, 2022

Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Luke 9:51-62

You may have heard people say that kids can get out of hand. You know. Kids jump about. Kids make lots of noise. Kids butt each other with their heads.

Yes. They butt each other with their heads. You don’t do that? Well of course you don’t. You’re not a… Oh. Right. I’m sorry.

When I say “kids” today, I’m not talking about young human beings. I’m talking about young goats. And those kids can definitely get out of hand, jumping about, making lots of noise, and butting each other with their heads.

One kid, however, was a handful even by kid standards – that is, goat kid standards. He was constantly head-butting and foot-kicking and even mouth-biting. Goat kids can get rather rough with one another, but he was rougher than any of them wanted to deal with. Pretty soon he didn’t have any friends in the pasture. If they let him close he’d butt or kick or bite.

He was sad when he got back to his mother. “Why don’t I have any friends?” he asked, and when he’d explained how he behaved with the other kids, his mother thought for a moment.

“If you want friends, you’ve got to love them,” she said.

“Love them?” he asked.

“Love them,” she said.

He thought about this until he fell asleep and thought more about it when he woke up in the morning. He bounced off to the pasture and happily shouted, “I love you!” to the other kids. Then he rushed up to them, butted one with his head, kicked another with his hooves, and bit a third with his teeth, all the while shouting, “I love you!” The herd of kids scattered and he certainly didn’t make any friends.

“Why don’t I have any friends?” he asked his mother that night.

“Didn’t you love them?” she said.

“I tried. But it didn’t work,” he said.

“Tell me what you did,” she said. He did, and when he finished, she sighed.

“Tell me this,” she said. “Do you enjoy it when another kid hits you or kicks you or bites you?”

“Well, not much,” he admitted.

“If I did that, would you believe that I loved you?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“Do you think the other kids believe you love them when you butt them and kick them and bite them?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted. “I guess they don’t.”

“Love isn’t just saying it,” said his mother. “Love is doing things because they help someone or help them be well. Love is not doing things because they hurt someone or make them feel bad. So go back tomorrow and try to love them – and this time, show it.”

I won’t claim that he did it perfectly the next day – he didn’t – but he really did show more love for the other kids than he ever had before. As the days passed, he made friends, and they loved him, too.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The video includes the complete service of July 26, 2022. Clicking “Play” will jump to the beginning of the story. The recording is of the story told live without notes. It is not the same as the prepared text.

Photo of goats on Maui by Forest & Kim Starr, CC BY 3.0 us, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=70450192.

Help to Get Home

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 19, 2022

1 Kings 19:1-15
Luke 8:26-39

The ‘apapane was lonely, lost, and scared. He’d been flying just above the treetops when the big wind blew up. In a moment its strength had snatched him away from the tree branches he wanted to cling to and shelter in. It carried him along above the slopes of Mauna Loa and off toward Kona-side. It was too much to fly into the wind. It was too much to fly across it; he’d simply have been tumbled. All he could do was stay in the air and ride it until it calmed enough that he could land somewhere and take shelter.

That took far longer than he’d hoped. Off to his left he could see the ocean from time to time. The land beneath him fell away, and he let himself descend with it, which eventually put him behind one of the ridges of Mauna Loa. The wind’s strength faded, and he was able to find a perch in an ohi’a tree. There he clung and gasped for breath and was just grateful to be safe again.

He knew he was a long way from home, however. His own flock was far behind. None of the land shapes looked familiar – or if they looked familiar but he knew they weren’t home. When the storm calmed, he knew he’d have a long flight home.

After a while, he heard the roar of the wind overhead subside. He took off once more to test it, and it was safe to start the journey back. But he was still scared, he was pretty much lost, and he was all alone. What else could he do but start his flight?

He stayed close to the trees – he didn’t want to be blown back again if the wind returned – and tried to avoid the i’iwi and the ‘amakihi and the ‘akepa he saw. He flew around the little flocks of ‘apapane as well. He wasn’t sure he’d be welcome. But that meant that he was also flying around the places where ohi’a was in blossom. That, after all, was where the local birds were. Avoiding them meant he was also avoiding the places to find food and to rest safely.

Tired and hungry, he thought he spotted an ohi’a tree with no birds in it. It had a few blossoms on it, not many, and not enough to make a meal of nectar, but he hoped he’d find bugs to eat to fill himself up. He landed near a cluster of blooms and had dipped his beak for nectar when he heard and ‘apapane voice say, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

He turned his head to see an older female ‘apapane, a tutu for certain, he thought, so he answered respectfully, “I’m sorry, auntie. The wind blew me away from my home and my flock, and I’m on my way back. I’ll just go now.”

He opened his wings to take off again, but the tutu ‘apapane stopped him. “Wait, now. You’re in no shape to fly. Eat something.”

He gratefully dipped his beak in the ohi’a blooms again, and hopped about chasing bugs and spiders. “Rest,” said his new friend, and he let his eyes close. When they opened again she said, “Come with me,” and they flew to another ohi’a tree, this one dripping with blossoms and nectar. She told the other ‘apapane in the tree that he was a visiting friend, and he had an excellent meal and took another rest.

When he woke, the other birds had flown to other trees, but the tutu ‘apapane was still there. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like I can fly home,” he said.

“Have a safe flight and happy landings,” she said, which is the most ancient of ‘apapane prayers.

Off he went, and he did find his way safely home, because he’d been given food, and rest, and kindness by someone who was loving and wise.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The recording is of this story told live without notes. It’s not the same as the prepared text.

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Chasing Hope

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 12, 2022

Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31
Romans 5:1-5

The young pueo had learned many things. He’d learned how to fly, and how to find his way home, and how to spot small creatures in the grasses. He was, in many ways, prepared to begin a life of his own.

But he didn’t know what hope was.

His mother talked about hope a lot. Or muttered about it a lot. “Do you think we’ll find mice out there today?” he’d ask, and she’d say, “Hope.” “Do you think it will be sunny and warm today?” he’d ask, and she’d say, “Hope.” “Do you think I’ll learn something new today?” he’d ask, and she’d say, “Hope.”

Sadly, one of the things that he hadn’t learned by the end of any day up to that point was what “Hope” meant.

So he went to ask grandmother, Tutu Pueo, his mother’s mother. He flew to the rock on which she’d perched and asked, “Tutu, what is hope?”

“Hasn’t your mother told you?” she asked, rather surprised.

“No,” he said. “She mutters ‘Hope,’ a lot, like when we set out to find dinner, or when I ask about what’s coming. But she never says what it is.”

Tutu laughed. “I’ll just have to teach you the way I taught her,” she said. “Come fly with me. Let’s chase Hope.”

Puzzled but willing, he followed grandmother into the sky. “You’ve got to chase Hope,” said Tutu over the rush of the air. “Yes, but what does Hope look like?” asked the grandson, but suddenly she shouted, “Look there! In the grasses!”

Down they pounced to where an unwary mouse had ventured out. They enjoyed their snack, but then he said, “That wasn’t Hope, was it? That was a mouse.”

“You’ve got to chase Hope,” said Tutu. “Come on.”

Once more they took to the air, but clouds were pouring through the gap between Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea. “Look! There’s Hope!” shouted Tutu and she poured on the speed, heading for the retreating sunshine. Before the rain began to fall they were circling again in the sun.

“That’s not Hope, is it?” said grandson. “Isn’t it just… sunshine?”

Tutu turned lazy circles. “You’ve got to chase Hope,” she called. “Have you learned anything?”

He thought about it. He thought about being hungry, and about chasing something to eat. He thought about wanting to be warm and dry, and chasing the gaps in the clouds. He thought about wanting to learn something, and…

“I’ve learned that you have to chase Hope,” he said. “It’s always somewhere out there ahead, isn’t it?”

Tutu nodded. “And when you catch it, it’s the thing you hoped for – and then Hope becomes the next thing you need or you want.”

When he went home, he found his mother waiting. “Did Tutu teach you anything?” she asked.

“She taught me to chase Hope,” he said. “Do you think I’ll learn something new tomorrow?”

She smiled a pueo smile and simply said, “Hope.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story as written does not match the story as told – I work from my memory of the text above, but not from the manuscript itself.

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

Returning Tide

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 5, 2022

Genesis 11:1-9
Acts 2:1-21

The opihi – do you know about opihi? They’re a shellfish, a little bit like scallops or clams. Scallops and clams, of course, have two shells and a hinge. They’ve got protection from creatures that like to eat them on top and on the bottom. And when things are safer, they can open up and let the water bring the little bits of seaweed and tiny creatures to them.

An opihi, however, only has one shell. I suppose it’s a little bit like a hat, only it’s a hat that covers the entire creature. An opihi – they’re called limpets in English – finds a spot on the rocks and holds tight as its shell grows over its top. And then it continues to hold tight. It might move a little bit to get to another spot on the rock with more algae, but you and I might not even notice them on the move.

And they don’t talk much. There’s not a lot to talk about, when you’re an opihi.

Here’s the thing: they like to live in the shallows along the shorelines of our islands. In those places, the tides come in, and the tides go out. Sometimes when the tide goes out, an opihi is in a pool of water. But sometimes, it finds itself above the water after it drains away. Sometimes it just sits there in the open air.

A honu pulled itself up on a rock to nap in the sun one day and found an opihi already there. I’m a little surprised it noticed. A honu is a lot bigger than an opihi. But they both have shells, so the honu felt a little bit of sympathy for this opihi, stranded on the rock outside the water.

“Do you need help?” the honu asked. “I see you’re out of the water here.”

The opihi wasn’t used to conversation – there’s not a lot to talk about when you’re an opihi (I may have mentioned that). But finally it found a reply:

“No. I’m fine.”

“Isn’t being out of the water a problem?”

“Well, not so much. If it went on a long time, that would be a problem,” said the opihi.

“How do you know it won’t be a long time?”

The opihi thought about this. “Honestly, I don’t know that it won’t be a long time. I suppose it could be. This isn’t the first time I’ve been left high and dry. Some of those times really did seem pretty long.”

The honu waited. Finally the opihi finished:

“The tide has always come back. I trust the tide more than I trust myself to swim if you swept me off the rock into the water.

“The tide has always been good to me. I’ll hold on here until it returns again.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

The story is told from memory of this prepared text – and thus will never be quite the same.

Photo of opihi in Honokanaia, Kahoolawe, Hawaii, by Forest & Kim Starr, CC BY 3.0 us, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71815389.

You Can Do Something

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 29, 2022

Acts 16:16-34
John 17:20-26

by Eric Anderson

The i’iwi, I’m afraid, can be something of a bully.

Most of the time things are OK. They’ll even join a flock of ‘apapane to find good trees for nectar sipping. But… there are times when it all goes very badly. An i’iwi that finds an ohi’a tree in full blossom first is pretty likely to chase other birds away. ‘Apapane and ‘amakihi in particular aren’t welcome when there’s a tree full of flowers. When an i’iwi starts swooping at them, most of the time they leave.

There was one i’iwi in the ohi’a forest, though, who was a thoroughgoing bully. He would chase ‘apapane away from a tree with just a few flower clusters. He would dive at ‘amakihi as they passed by a tree he was sitting in. If there were more flowers, he’d just get more aggressive. Some ‘apapane had to dodge strikes with his long curved beak. Some ‘amakihi swerved away from his extended claws.

A group of ‘apapane were perched in a not-very-flowery ohi’a tree rather glumly. They weren’t exactly hungry, but they certainly weren’t well fed. They’d had to fly further to find ohi’a in blossom, and sometimes he’d come after them and chase them away from those trees, too. It was a bad situation.

“I wish there was something we could do about it,” said one of the ‘apapane.

“You know, I think there might be,” said an ‘amakihi at the edge of the group.

The birds, ‘apapane and ‘amakihi alike, and maybe an ‘akepa or two, listened in astonishment as she shared her idea.

“I don’t think that will work,” said a skeptical ‘apapane.

“If it doesn’t, we’re no worse off than we were,” said the ‘amakihi, and they all had to agree.

The next day, a few ‘amakihi joined the one whose idea it had been and flew by the tree the bully i’iwi was perched in. It was a tree just dripping with blossoms and nectar, so of course he took off after them to chase them off. What he didn’t notice was that as he flew after them, a larger group of ‘apapane and ‘amakihi and ‘akepa descended on the tree he had left and began to feed. When he returned, he found the tree full of birds. With more anger and confidence than good sense, the bully set in to chase them away, but found they weren’t very chase-able when they already had a purchase in the tree – and when there were quite a good number of them. The decoy ‘amakihi flew in behind and so they, too, were in the tree, as the i’iwi fluttered about, getting wings and beaks batted at him by three or four birds at a time, until he finally flew off in disgust.

“I didn’t think it would work,” repeated the skeptical ‘apapane.

“My tutu told me you can always do something,” said the ‘amakihi who’d led the flock. “Sometimes the something even works.”

You can always do something.

Watch the Recorded Story

The story is told from memory of this prepared text – and thus will never be quite the same.

Photo by ALAN SCHMIERER from southeast AZ, USA – HAWAI’I AMAKIHI (8-30-2017) Hakalau Forest National Wildlife Refuge, Hawaii Co, hawaii-03 male, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=74675379.

Surrounded by Air

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 22, 2022

Acts 16:9-15
John 5:1-9

by Eric Anderson

The young noio was confused.

The world was, let’s face it, a fairly confusing place, especially there on the ocean-fronted cliffs of Kamokuna. There’s a lot of wind down there, and that plays with your mind. There’s a lot of noise from the waves breaking against the cliffs, and that’s just distracting. And in addition to the things he felt most of the time – the warmth of his parents’ feathers, the ruffling of his own feathers in the wind, the warm sun of day and the coolness of night – there was the occasional spatter of wind-driven spray.

All that would confuse anyone.

His nest gave him a great view of his world. Perched on a rocky shelf, he could see far off into he distance where the ocean stretched away. He could see the other noio skimming the water’s surface and dipping their beaks in and sometimes diving in briefly before taking off again. As day began the other birds of the colony would take off and begin their fishing above the ocean. As day closed they’d fly back, landing at their nests and bringing food to their young – like him.

What confused him was… flying.

It didn’t frighten him, the way it did some other birds in some other stories I’ve told before. It confused him. He didn’t understand how it could work. He could clearly see that it did, but as far as he was concerned it simply shouldn’t work. How could gravity be so much a force here at the nest and stop being one when a noio had left it? How could his wings flap against nothing and accomplish something? What invisible thing were the other noio grasping – and wings can’t actually grab hold of anything – to change direction like that?

It was terribly confusing.

I don’t really know why he didn’t ask anyone about it. His parents were kind and caring, his grandparents wise and intelligent, all good qualities for someone looking for a good person to answer questions. But he didn’t. He didn’t ask his friends in neighboring nests, and he didn’t ask their parents, either. Maybe he was just trying to work it out himself. I don’t know.

So when the day came to take his first flight, with his parents and grandparents and friends and their families all watching in anxious pride, he was anxious, too. Could he do something he didn’t understand? Was that the magic to flight? But he stretched out his wings, did a hop or two, and the next thing he knew he was off the ledge and moving.

Somehow there was a substance to the nothing he couldn’t see beneath his wings. He could use his wings to shape it and push off from it, and there would be more when his wings came forward again. A subtle adjustment meant a turn. A greater adjustment made a tighter turn.

And since noio are members of the tern family of birds, turn about is fair play.

He flew back to the home ledge and successfully landed with a bit of a flurry of wings and feathers for that first attempt.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You don’t understand what?” asked his father.

“I don’t understand how it works. I can see rock. I can see water. But I can’t see what I’ve been flying on.”

“It’s air,” said his mother, “the same air you breathe, the same air in the wind. No, you can’t see it, but it’s there, always there, and it will carry you anywhere you want to go.”

Watch the Recorded Story

This story is not told from the manuscript above, but from a memory of its composition.

Photo by Eric Anderson.