Stories

Story: Can a Stilt Fly?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 8, 2025

Romans 8:14-17
Acts 2:1-21

The ae’o shouldn’t have had any doubt about the question. But she felt awkward and ungainly, which isn’t unusual when you’ve done a lot of growing in a very short time. She was only about four weeks old, but that was time enough to learn a few things about the world.

For one thing, she’d learned that she had very long legs as compared to the size of her body. The ae’o, it’s said, has the second longest legs for the size of their body of any bird. That’s a lot of leg, or not a lot of body, depending on how you want to think of it. She’d also learned that those legs were very useful for walking around in the calm waters of a fishpond, and she learned that she could use her long beak to pull food out of the water. She’d learned that in English she was called a “black-necked stilt,” which seemed fair enough, because she had long stilt-like legs and the feathers on her neck were definitely turning black as they changed with her age.

But she’d also learned that other birds were very different. The ‘Alae Ke’oke’o were sort of similar in size, but they had much shorter legs. In fact, they swam across the top of the water. She’d seen kolea and akekeke pecking for bugs and such along the shorelines before they left for Alaska. All of those birds seemed a lot more compact than she did, with her smallish body and long neck and long long legs. She’d watch the kolea wheel about the sky.

And she grew to believe that she could not fly.

I don’t know how she missed the fact that her parents flew quite well. I don’t know how she failed to notice that she, herself, had been taking wing-aided hops for a week. I don’t know how she missed all that. But she did. “I’m not going to be able to fly,” she said sadly one day, thinking that nobody was there to hear her.

“Really?” said a voice. “Why not?”

When she looked over, she saw another bird’s face with a long beak looking at her. It was a cattle egret, one of the many who liked the area of her fishpond.

“Just look at me,” she said. “Look at these long legs. Look at this long neck. Look at these wings. They can’t possibly get me off the ground and into the sky.”

The cattle egret looked her over carefully and said, “I’ve got long legs.”

She took a good look and realized that he did. “And I’ve got a long neck,” he continued.

“So you do,” she said.

“And have you noticed?” he asked. “I can fly.” And to prove it, he took to the air and flew twice around the fishpond before he landed near her again.

“I can’t be sure, but I think you can fly,” he said. “Have you tried?”

She didn’t bother to say, “No,” because they both knew she hadn’t. She didn’t say anything at all, in fact, but she did spread her wings. She looked at him sharply to make sure he wasn’t teasing her, but there was no trace of laughter in his face.

She took off. She flew.

She took three turns around the fishpond – she’d meant to do the same two turns he had, but she miscalculated the landing and had to come back and try it again.

“I can fly!” she said.

“You can,” he said. “I’m glad you tried. And I’m glad you fly.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory, improvisation, and of course in conversation with the young people I tell them to.

Photo of an Ae’o (Hawaiian Black-necked Stilt) in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Amakihi Hoard

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 1, 2025

Acts 16:16-34
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21

He was young, which may explain why he tried something that an older bird would know didn’t work. He was also pretty anxious about things, which explains more. In the end, though, it was his tutu who saw the biggest reason, which was…

I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should start the story at the beginning.

The ‘amakihi was young. And, as I mentioned, he could get anxious about things. If it was sunny, he worried about whether rain would come again. If it was raining, he worried about whether it would ever stop. If he was surrounded by other birds, he worried about whether it would ever be quiet with all these birds singing. If he was by himself, he worried that he’d be lonely forever.

Mostly, though, he worried about being hungry.

As a young and growing bird, he’d driven his parents to distraction by his constant calls for food. Some birds, and people for that matter, eat when they’re hungry. He’d call for food when he was full, because he knew he’d be hungry again soon. That can be pretty unhealthy for people and for birds, but frankly his parents couldn’t keep up with his demands, so they fed him more or less the right amount of food.

When he left the nest, he kept it up. If he was hungry, he’d head for the nearest flower, snap up the bugs, and drink the nectar. If he was still hungry, it was time for the next flower and the next bug. And if he wasn’t hungry, he’d still move on to the next flower.

What kept him from getting sick from overeating is that he had to do enough flying between trees that he couldn’t quite eat more than was good for him. Not quite.

One day, though, he was watching some bugs instead of trying to eat them. They were bees in their hive, and they were gathering nectar and storing it away. Suddenly it struck him.

“I can gather flowers and store them away like the bees,” he said. “Then I’ll never have to worry about finding flowers, and I’ll never be hungry.”

Off he flew.

He started snipping blossoms from the trees: Ohi’a, Mamane, anything he could find. He tucked them into an abandoned nest he found, then flew out in search again. If there were other birds around, he’d chase them off first so he could get the flowers. He had gotten rather big with eating, so other birds tended to fly away. The forest filled with squawking, protesting birds as he flew about with flowers in his beak.

He’d made quite a few trips and the forest was in an uproar when he found his grandmother perched next to his store of flowers.

“Aloha, Tutu,” he told her.

“Aloha, grandson,” she said to him. “What are you doing?”

“Storing flowers,” he said, “so I’ll never be hungry.”

“Really?” she said. “Who gave you that idea?”

“The bees,” he said. “They store nectar and pollen and they’re never hungry.”

“Grandson,” said Tutu, “would you look carefully at your flowers?”

For the first time since he started collecting them, he looked. No longer connected to their branches, they’d wilted and faded. Their nectar had dried and disappeared. A few bugs were crawling on them, of course, but even the bugs preferred the liquid nectar of a living flower.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. “Did you really think it would work?”

“I thought that I needed food for myself,” said her grandson, “that the other birds couldn’t take away from me.”

“The forest is for everyone,” said Tutu, “for every one of us. We’re not bees, who have ways of storing things, and they share what they store with the entire hive. We are forest birds. We don’t hoard. We don’t keep things away from others, not from ‘amakihi, not from ‘apapane, not from i’iwi. We share.”

She looked at him closely. “What do we do, grandson?”

“We share, Tutu.”

“Good. Let’s go have lunch.”

They left the sorry hoard behind for the living flowers they shared with all the creatures of the forest.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (and inspiration).

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Story: The Molting ‘Apapane

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 25, 2025

Acts 16:9-15
John 14:23-29

He wasn’t the oldest among his siblings, cousins, and friends from nearby nests, but he was one of the first to molt from his young feathering to his adult colors. He’d had gray feathers on the chest and brown on his head and back, with black on his wings and tail. They all did. It made their games of hide-and-seek pretty difficult, because those colors melded into the shadows on the tree branches pretty well.

As I say, though, he was the first among them to start losing some of those brown and gray feathers, and start to gain the red feathers from head to tail. Frankly, it wasn’t going well. Loose feathers itched, and so did the new feathers as they grew in. They also didn’t fall out evenly. He found himself with a grayish belly blotched with the new red feathers.

“You look ridiculous,” said one of the young ‘apapane who played hide-and-seek with him, and, well, he felt ridiculous.

“Can’t you hide that?” asked another of the ‘apapane. He was a cousin, but he could be mean, even to a cousin. Our young ‘apapane couldn’t think of how.

“Go clean that up,” ordered one of the bossier young ‘apapane. She was one of those who thought she knew best for everybody else. But he still didn’t know how to take care of it, so he kept his perch and tried not to cry.

“Knock it off,” said the smallest of the young ‘apapane. All her feathers were still brown and gray, and she looked like she’d just been groomed by the finest feather-settlers of the forest. Everybody assumed that she was talking to the young bird with the splotchy red.

“Yeah, knock it off,” said the one who’d started this by calling him ridiculous in the first place.

“No, you knock it off,” said the smallest ‘apapane. “And you. And you. And all of you.”

She shook her wings and continued, “First of all, what can he do about it? You all know that our feathers will change from what we’re wearing to what our parents wear. Did you think that happened overnight? Didn’t you realize that it’s going to take time and that there are rough spots along the way?”

As it happened, none of them had thought about it.

“What are you going to do,” she demanded, “when this happens to you in a week or two? Are you going to make everybody going through this fly away, or are you going to help them when it itches and tell them it will be all right? What would you want for yourself?”

She asked that last question straight at the bird who’d ordered the molting ‘apapane to go clean that up. She didn’t say anything until it became clear that she had to answer.

“I’d want help,” she said.

“How about the rest of you?” demanded the smallest ‘apapane. They all admitted they’d want help.

“And that’s what you’ll get,” she said. “We’ll start with our friend here.”

“So how are you?” she asked. “Does it itch today?”

That’s how that generation of ‘apapane made it through their molt.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. What you have just read will not match the way I told it.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane in molt (at least that’s what I think it is) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Welcome

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 18, 2025

Acts 11:1-13
John 13:31-35

The young ‘amakihi was nervous. She had been busy growing up, which ‘amakihi do a lot quicker than human beings do, but there was a lot to pack into that time. There was eating, and learning what to eat. There was taking care of her feathers, which changed when she molted and the feather lengths changed. And of course there was flying.

Then she had to learn about eating again, because there were things she could get to with working wings that she couldn’t get to in a nest. She learned about new bugs, new fruits, and new flowers. She’d been too busy to be nervous.

She was nervous now, though, because her parents had announced that the family would join a flock for the summer. She wasn’t really used to other birds. She’d met an auntie or an uncle or two, and of course her tutu, but these would be strange ‘amakihi. Would they like her? Would they be mean to her?

It made her more nervous to realize that the flock wouldn’t include just ‘amakihi. It would include ‘akepa, ‘alawi, and scariest of all, ‘apapane. She knew there were a lot of ‘apapane around. She’d seen far more of them than she had ‘amakihi. She’d also seen them chase ‘amakihi through the forest, even her own father. “I got too close to their nest,” he’d explained, and that made sense because she’d seen him chase other birds away from her nest, but still. The ‘apapane made her nervous.

“It will be all right,” said her father. “It’s different when birds aren’t worried about nests and eggs.”

“It will be all right,” said her mother. “You’ll make it all right.”

The day came when she and her brother and her parents flew over to an ohi’a tree filled with other birds. There were other ‘amakihi, and she knew some of them because her tutu were there. There was ‘akepa and ‘alawi showing off their green and bright orange feathers. Mostly, though, there were ‘apapane. They hopped through the branches, singing their beautiful songs, and looking very sharp in their red and black feathers.

One of them, who was keeping rather quiet, hopped over to the branch where she was sitting, keeping very quiet and hoping nobody would notice her.

“Hi,” said the ‘apapane. “What kind of bird are you?”

“I’m an ‘amakihi,” she said. “And you’re an ‘apapane.”

“I am,” he said, and looking rather nervous, said, “I feel really dumb. I’ve never seen most of these birds before. Do you know any of them?”

“Well, I know my family,” she said, “and I’ve seen a couple of these other birds before,” – she didn’t mention that they’d been chasing her father away from their nest – “but most of these birds are as new to me as they are to you.”

“Oh, good,” said the ‘apapane. “I guess this is new to most of us youngsters?”

“I think it is,” said the ‘amakihi. “I’ve been worried that nobody would like me.”

“You’ve made me feel better,” said the ‘apapane. “I think most birds would like you for that.”

“And you’ve made me feel welcome,” said the ‘amakihi. “Thank you so much for that.”

Mother had known, after all. She had made it all right.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. As a result, what you’ve just read will not match what you hear.

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Imitation

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

May 11, 2025

Acts 9:36-43
John 10:22-30

How is a young bird, or a young turtle, or a young person supposed to figure out how to be an adult bird, or an adult turtle, or an adult human being? People, at least, get some instructions from their elders. We get taught how to get dressed, and what things are good to eat (or at least good for you to eat; opinions differ on whether things that are good for you are tasty enough to eat), and especially important things like, “Don’t touch the boiling tea kettle on the hot stove!”

Birds probably don’t get quite that much teaching. Certainly they don’t get the years of it that we do as we’re growing up.

A young ‘akekeke was learning how to be an ‘akakeke. He’d already made one trip from Alaska to Hawai’i, just as the kolea do, and he’d been sleeping and eating and flying about ever since. But he was confused.

You see, there were creatures who did very different things than ‘akekeke did, and he wondered if their ways might be better.

Mind you, there were plenty of creatures who did very similar things. Kolea and hunakai and ‘akekeke all hunted through the grasses and tidepools and rocks for insects, snails, and so on. If he imitated them, things went pretty well. He tried to imitate the ae’o, but he didn’t have long pink legs to hold his body out of the water of the fishpond and he ended up gasping and spluttering as he flapped his miserable way to shore.

The least successful of all was when he tried to imitate a honu. He flopped into the water in a calm spot and lingered below the surface. Then he tried to eat some seaweed on the underwater rocks. He choked on the water, of course, and once more hauled his bedraggled self onto the beach.

He looked about and saw his mother.

She asked, “What are you up to, son?”

“I’m learning,” he said. “I’m learning to be an ‘akekeke.”

She looked around at the other ‘akakeke on the shore, none of whom were trying to feed like a honu. “How?”

“By imitating what I see,” he said.

“Are you learning anything?” she asked.

“I’m learning that some things don’t work,” he said, and coughed up a little more water.

“I’m not saying you can’t learn anything from a honu,” said his mother, “but for basic things like eating and flying, I don’t think there’s much they can teach you. I don’t think you can eat the way they do, and they certainly can’t fly the way you do.”

“I suppose not,” said the ‘akekeke, who was a little sad about not learning anything with his imitations that day.

“You have taught me something today, something I can imitate,” he said.

“What’s that, son?” asked his mother.

“You’ve taught me to be kind.”

Whether we wear feathers, shells, or rubbah slippahs on our running feet, let’s all imitate those who are kind.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation) during worship. What you have just read is not necessarily how I told it.

Photo of an ‘akekeke (ruddy turnstone) by Eric Anderson. Not far away, grazing in a shallow pool, there was a honu (green sea turtle).

Story: Special

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 4, 2025

Acts 9:1-20
John 21:15-17

I was on Kauai in March at Ha’ena Beach. It’s a special place, even though the day I visited it was, let’s face it, raining. Come to think of it, it was Hilo weather. I probably should have left that at home.

While I was there I saw three birds that were very special to me, because I’d never seen them before. Two of them don’t live on our island.

While I was there, I didn’t see them talking, but perhaps, just perhaps, they had a conversation after I left. It might have gone like this:

“Who was that guy with the camera?” asked one of the koloa, a Hawaiian duck.

[There are a pair of koloa flying in the upper photo.]

“He took a lot of pictures of me,” said the male white-rumped shama, showing off his long blue-black tail.

[The male shama is posing at upper right.]

“You posed,” said his wife, whose tail was much shorter and whose feathers were gray rather than deep blue.

[The female shame is at lower right, and also posing.]

“He took all of our picture,” said the ‘alae ‘ula (Hawaiian gallinule) from the swampy ground where he had been feeding and, as far as anyone could tell, not noticing.

[The ‘alae ‘ula is at lower left.]

“He took my picture the most because I’m special,” said the male shama. “I mean, look at these feathers! Look at this tail! Wouldn’t you take my picture if you could?”

The other birds had to admit that they probably would.

“You see?” said the shama. “I’m special.”

“Yes, you’re special,” said the female shama, “but I’m special, too. You’ve got more spectacular feathers than I do, but try and lay an egg without me.” The female koloa quacked her agreement before her husband could protest.

“You’re all special,” sighed the ‘alae ‘ula. “I wish I had your feathers, shama, or your black-barred wings, koloa. I’m afraid I’m not special. He took my picture and then went away.”

The other four birds were rather uncomfortable about this, because it was true. I took the ‘alae ‘ula’s picture and went away.

“It was raining rather hard,” said the shama, who stayed beneath leaves while it happened unlike the koloa or the ‘alae ‘ula.

“It was,” said one of the koloa. “Perhaps water doesn’t roll off of him…”

“…Like water off a duck’s back?” laughed her mate.

The birds had a good laugh, and then the shama said seriously, “’Alae ‘ula, you’re very special. There are so few of your kind in the world.”

“That’s a tough way to be special,” said the ‘alae ‘ula, and it’s true. It is tough being in a small group in a big world.

“There’s only one you,” said a koloa. “That’s true of me, and all of us. There’s only one. You’re special, each and every one of you.”

The ‘alae ‘ula nodded solemn gratitude to each of the other special birds, and went back to feeding.

Like each of them, each of us – each of you – is unique in the world, precious, and special.

Even if water doesn’t necessarily roll off you like water rolls off a duck’s back.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory plus improvisation. What you have just read is not identical to the way I told it.

Photos of (clockwise from upper left) two koloa in flight, a male white-rumped shama, a female white-rumped shama, and an ‘alae ‘ula by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Army

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments
Two birds with bright red feathers on their heads sitting on a branch, with a third bird flying up toward them from below.

January 26, 2025

Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10
Luke 4:14-21

‘Apapane are not generally aggressive birds. They tend to be the ones that fly away from other, touchier, birds. Once in a while, though, ‘apapane will flock together and this discourages the bullies (which are mostly i’iwi, I’m sorry to say).

One year, an ‘apapane got an idea.

First, he gathered as large a flock as he could. There were dozens of birds, maybe a hundred birds. No i’iwi would threaten them, he knew.

Second, he chased away all the non-‘apapane. ‘Apapane will flock with ‘amakihi and ‘akepa sometimes, but not in this flock, no. He made sure that for every bird he chased away, he invited two or three more ‘apapane to join. The flock got bigger.

Third, he set his ultimate plan in motion. He called them into a stand of ohi’a bright with blossoms. “These are our trees, ‘apapane trees,” he told the gathered birds. “We will keep them for ourselves and only for ourselves. We will chase away the i’iwi so they never bother us again. More than that, we will chase away the ‘amakihi and the ‘akepa and the ‘alawi and anyone else who tries to steal our nectar. We will be the grandest birds in the forest.”

Sure enough, that’s what they did. They chased the other birds away from the trees they called theirs. They soaked up the sunlight, they reveled in the nectar, they crunched up the bugs.

The ohi’a forest, however, changes. The grove that is bright with blossoms today goes to seed tomorrow. The trees they had claimed for their own went from flower to seed. The ‘apapane began to get hungry.

“Do not fear!” he called. “It’s time to go get other trees.”

With that, an ‘apapane army took to the air. They flew to another stand of blossoming trees and they chased away all the other birds. Except for one. One bird remained perched in her tree, sipping from one of the bright red blossoms.

An i’iwi.

“Get out,” ordered the leader of the ‘apapane army. “These are our trees. ‘Apapane trees. You are not welcome.”

The i’iwi took another sip. “And what will you do if I don’t go?” she asked.

“We’ll mob you,” said the ‘apapane. “You’ll never have any peace.”

“But if I let you chase me from every tree with flowers, I’ll never have any peace, either,” said the i’iwi. “If I can’t have peace I might as well have nectar. And,” the i’iwi looked over the ‘apapane leader’s shoulder at the birds behind him, “I’m not sure if you’ve got a mobbing flock back there.”

One of the birds swallowed hard and hopped forward. “We’re not bullies,” he said. “It’s one thing to keep bullies away. It’s another thing to make other birds hungry.”

“Keep your place!” whistled the leader. “This is my decision! Mine alone!”

And that’s where the ‘apapane army broke up. There were birds who wouldn’t be bullies, so they flew away. There were birds that wouldn’t be servants, and they flew away. And there were birds that had had enough of army life, and they flew away.

Only three birds remained: the i’iwi, the ‘apapane leader, and the first ‘apapane who had refused to be a bully.

The ‘apapane leader asked the i’iwi, “So now you’ll bully us?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “There’s plenty of nectar in the forest. Eat your fill.” The ex-leader stared at her a moment before flying away himself.

“Would you like some nectar?” the i’iwi asked the ‘apapane who wouldn’t be a bully.

“I would. Thank you. Thank you for everything,” he said, and side by side they sipped from the bright red flowers.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory plus improvisation. What you have just read is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of three ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Small Differences

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

January 19, 2025

1 Corinthians 12:1-11
John 2:1-11

The akiapla’au is a small bird. It has a unique beak, with a short lower beak, and a longer top beak that hooks down in front of the lower beak. It may look odd, but the lower beak can drill into tree bark after bugs and grubs, and the top beak hooks them to draw them out.

If that seems strange, just imagine that you had to chase the chocolate chips through a cookie, and you might think a double-purpose beak sounds pretty good.

An akiapola’au is a small bird. It isn’t any bigger than a saffron finch or a yellow-beaked cardinal. There aren’t very many of them, either, perhaps about 1,900 here on Hawai’i Island. There aren’t any anywhere else in the world.

I think they’re pretty wonderful and pretty special.

A youngish akiapola’au, however, wasn’t certain about this. I don’t know whether he knew that birds like him live only on this one island, but I’m certain he knew there weren’t a lot of them around. Think about how you know so many of the people of Hilo, and how many of them you call “auntie” or “uncle.” After a couple of years, he knew pretty much every akiapola’au there was, and he called a lot of them “auntie” or “uncle.”

“There aren’t very many of us, and we’re very small birds,” he said to himself one day. “How will we ever make a difference in the world?” He had dreams, he did. He wanted to make the world better. He wanted someone else to benefit because he lived. He wanted to love the world somehow.

“But how?” he asked himself. “I’m too small to move anything bigger than a caterpillar with this beak of mine. And if we gathered all of us together and flapped our wings as hard as we could, what could we akiapola’au do but make a light breeze that the trade winds would blow away?”

It made him sad.

“Auntie,” he asked one day, “how can I make a difference?”

“What makes you think you don’t?” she asked.

“I’m too small to move anything,” he said, “and there aren’t enough of us together to make anything different.” Sadly, he dug out another little worm, hooked it with his upper bill, and ate it.

“What did you just do?” asked his auntie.

“Nothing,” he said, startled. “Well. I ate a worm.”

“Look at that tree over there,” said his auntie. “What do you see?”

“I see a sick tree,” said the younger akiapola’au. “It’s had so many caterpillars and worms that it’s fading. It might be dying.”

“What about this tree?” asked auntie.

“This tree is doing better,” he said.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t have so many worms and bugs,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because… I’m not sure. Is it because we’ve been eating them?”

“It is. And not just us. Other birds do the same. Between us, we’re helping this tree stay healthy.”

“But that’s just one tree,” he protested.

“I feed from lots of trees, and you know you do, too,” said his auntie. “That’s still a difference.

“You and I are small in the world,” she told him, “but these trees have better, stronger lives because of us. We make a difference for them, and they make a difference for us. For that matter, they make a difference for all the creatures of this forest. Our small difference contributes to everyone’s lives. You make the world a little better every day.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory supplemented by improvisation. The story you just read will not match the way I told it.

Photo of an akiapola’au (though it’s not a good one) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Nene Students

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A photo of a nene, a wild Hawaiian goose, standing by a pond facing away.

January 15, 2025
(for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference Committee on Ministry)

Nene School was in session. There was a new teacher that year, but he was getting help from a more experienced nene. She had been his teacher some years before. And because he was new, he had a relatively small class. Just three students.

Two of them were siblings, a brother and sister. The third was immediately interested in Food Identification part of the curriculum – Nene School basically consists of Flight and Food. The new teacher thought he’d be a good student, but mostly he was hungry. Time after time the teacher would have to rush over as the student reached out for yet another inedible item.

It kept him hopping.

He hoped that the brother and sister would be good flight students, since they’d already learned to fly together. His hopes were dashed, however, the first time they took off for basic formation flying. Honks of “You’re took close!” and “Get away from me!” resounded over the rocks and forest. He could barely be heard over them to try to coach them into position. Eventually there was a collision, and the two bruised siblings settled down to the ground to continue their recriminations.

The teacher could feel his teacher’s eyes on the back of his head, watching him as his class turned into a full-fledged disaster – that’s a disaster with feathers on. Or fluttering down from the sky because they didn’t stay on.

This went on for a week, and things didn’t get better. The hungry young nene never seemed to listen or retain what he’d been told. The siblings fought on the ground, climbing, cruising, descending, and on the ground again. The watching teacher said nothing. The young teacher got desperate.

As the class ended with more flying feathers, more angry honking, and a certain amount of vomit from an ill-considered berry, he burst out in fury: “You are the worst nene I’ve ever met! You’ll never learn! I’m sorry you were ever hatched!”

Shocked, the students flew away.

He turned to find his teacher standing right behind him. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. “What?” he challenged.

“I’m disappointed,” she said.

“I’m disappointed in them, too,” he growled.

“I’m disappointed in you,” she said.

“What?”

“Haven’t you noticed that the siblings have been carefully listening to every word you’ve said about finding food? Haven’t you noticed that they never ask you twice about it? That they’ve learned so much in just a week?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“Haven’t you noticed that the third one sticks right by you in flight? He was awkward the first day, but he’s been right off your wingtip ever since. Haven’t you noticed?”

He hadn’t noticed.

“When they come back tomorrow, what are you going to say?” she asked, and then left him to consider.

The next morning, the three students stood anxiously before their teacher. They almost hadn’t come back. The older nene had persuaded them to come.

“I’m very sorry for what I said yesterday,” he said. “I had no business saying any of that. You’re here to learn, and I haven’t been teaching you very well.”

“Youngster,” he said to the hungry student, “I want you to keep an eye on the brother and sister here. They’ve done really well at learning what’s good to eat and what’s not. You can trust what they do.”

“And you two,” he said to the siblings, “can learn a lot from this youngster here. He’s been keeping good formation on me since the second day. Watch him. He’ll show you what to do.”

I won’t tell you that things went absolutely smoothly after that – there were still ruffled feathers and feelings, and the hungry student only gradually gave up whatever looked good at the time – but I will say that the students learned. All the students. One of whom was the teacher.

by Eric Anderson

I wrote this story as the opening devotional for a meeting of the Hawai’i Conference UCC Committee on Ministry Chairs.

Story: The I’iwi Who Disliked Getting Wet

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

January 12, 2025

Acts 8:14-17
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

She wasn’t vain, though she might have been. Her feathers ranged from deep black with white accents to the fiery orange-red that complimented her long curved beak. In short, she was an i’iwi, and those are feathers any bird would wear with pride.

Some birds are vain, and those birds might settle and resettle their feathers with their beak or their feet. They might avoid rainfall that would slick their feathers across their body, which can end up looking pretty sad and messy. Wet red feathers might look shiny and glossy, but they might also look dull and out of place. There are birds who would worry about that.

She wasn’t one of them. She kept herself neat because feathers in their places are more comfortable. She liked to greet other birds with some sense that she’d respected them by looking good. No, she wasn’t vain. But.

She didn’t like getting wet. She didn’t like it much at all.

Wet feathers might be glossy or they might be dull, but mostly she thought they were chilly and cold. And, well, wet. She didn’t like the sensation of drops pooling along her skin. Feathers are pretty good at shedding water, but they’re not as good as an umbrella or a raincoat. Eventually the rain seeps in, and she just didn’t like it.

“Yuck,” she said during one rainstorm. “I hate rain.”

A friend heard her complaint, which she’d made many times before. “You always say that,” he replied.

“I always hate rain,” she said. “Always.”

“Well, if you always hate rain,” said her friend, “have you ever thought of finding shelter?”

As it happens, she’d tried it. She’d tried trees with thick canopies of leaves. The rain got through. She’d tried gaps in the branches. They let water in, too. The saddest failure had been when she found a lava tube and settled there. To her horror, the rain poured in through the opening and flooded floor. Water rising from below, she thought, wasn’t any better than coming down from above. She told her friend so.

“Well, you can fly. Fly someplace without rain,” he told her, rather annoyed.

“All right. I will,” she said, and flew out into the rain.

Fortunately for her, she flew west across the center of the island toward Kona. I’m afraid she’d have found more rain, not less, here on the Hilo side. Sure enough, she found herself flying out from under the clouds as they exhausted their rain upon the slopes of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea. Soon she flew over the sunny grasslands west of the mountains.

And she saw nothing to eat.

She flew back and forth, looking for ohi’a or mamane trees, and while she saw one or two, she certainly didn’t see a forest. It took a while for her to realize the truth: the trees she relied on relied in turn on rain. They needed the water that annoyed her, in order to provide her with the nectar that she needed.

Hungry, she turned back toward home, flying back beneath the clouds still shedding their rain. Back on the branch with her friend, she began sipping nectar from the damp flowers, with raindrops speckling her feathers.

“You’re back,” said her friend. “Didn’t you find sunshine?”

“I did,” she said, “but it turns out that rain isn’t so bad. At least the trees think so, and,” she paused to take another sip, “if they think so, I do, too.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Stories

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory plus improvisation. What you have just read will not match the way I told it on Sunday.

Photo of an i’iwi by Eric Anderson.