The ‘elepaio has the reputation for being the most curious bird of the forest, but once there was an ‘apapane who was as curious as nearly any ‘elepaio. He had questions about everything. Why were his feathers brown when he was younger, and why did they turn red? Why did some trees have blossoms and others didn’t? Why did the days grow shorter and longer again?
He found answers to some of his questions, and he didn’t find answers to others of his questions. He never gave up asking them, though, and he never gave up trying to find out.
One morning, while enjoying a late morning snack of bugs, it suddenly occurred to him: Why do bugs taste sweet?
I’m not sure that bugs would taste sweet to you or to me, but the bugs he was eating that day definitely tasted sweet to him. He hadn’t thought about it before, but why should a bug taste sweet? Shouldn’t they be salty, or tangy, or something like that? Why sweet?
He asked around to see if anyone else knew, but nobody did. They hadn’t thought about it, and they weren’t all that interested. “If they taste good, that’s all that matters,” said one of his friends, and didn’t help any further. So the ‘apapane decided to watch and see what sweet bugs ate.
What they ate, he discovered, was a lot of things that he also ate. Those bugs ate fruit. They ate ohi’a nectar. They even ate other bugs who were eating sweet fruit and nectar. The sweetness of what they ate was being carried along to make them at least somewhat sweet.
“That’s amazing!” he said to himself. “But now the question is: Why is fruit sweet? Why is nectar sweet?”
Again, he went to friends and family to ask, and again they didn’t know. “It tastes good; that’s all that matters,” said the same friend. So he began to watch the trees, to see what they did to produce sweet fruit and flowers.
I’m afraid that being an ‘apapane rather than a human being meant that he never did learn the answer to that. He could see that the trees spread their leaves to the sun, but he couldn’t see the way that the green of the leaves combined water from the roots with energy of the sun to make the sweetness that made the tree grow. He couldn’t see that sweet sap being concentrated in the flowers to make nectar, and later in the fruits to feed the seeds of later trees. People have microscopes and chemistry equipment and lots of years asking and answering these questions. He didn’t.
He had to admit that he wouldn’t answer the question of sweet nectar, at least until he learned something new. For him, sweet nectar would remain a sweet mystery.
It never stopped him from enjoying it, though.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. There will be differences between the story I’ve written and the story I told.
Photo of an ‘apapane feeding from an ohi’a blossom by Eric Anderson.
I wrote this skit to meet a very particular need. Our Sunday School coordinator had surveyed the young people, and nobody (really nobody) wanted to play Joseph. Could I write a pageant that didn’t include Joseph? The result is what’s below.
We didn’t have any children who wanted to play the magi, either, so the original script didn’t include them. As rehearsals began, more of them wanted to participate, and so the size of the shepherd’s flock increased, a second shepherd got lines, and so did more of the magi.
By Eric Anderson
CHARACTERS
Mary: A young woman Gabriel: An angelic messenger Angels: A musical chorus Star: A bright object in the sky Shepherd: A tender of sheep Sheep: A wooly creature Magi 1: A scholar dressed a lot like a king Magi 2: Another scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking) Magi 3: One more scholar dressed a lot like a king (non-speaking)
SCENE 1: [MARY enters and sits at center stage, twiddling her thumbs]
Mary: I’m bored.
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Hail, O favored one!
Mary: (to audience) Well, this might be more interesting.
(to Gabriel) Who are you, and what kind of “Hello” is that?
Gabriel: What would you prefer?
Mary: “Hello” would be nice.
Gabriel: In that case, hello. My name is Gabriel. I’m an angel. Do not be afraid!
Mary: Was I supposed to be afraid?
Gabriel: It’s not required. I’m supposed to say that, though.
Mary: Are other people afraid?
Gabriel: People tend to get nervous talking to an angel, yes.
Mary: Oh, right. You’re an angel. You said. Well, I’m glad to talk to anybody. I’m bored.
Gabriel: Why are you bored?
Mary: I’m supposed to be getting married soon, but my family is doing all the wedding plans. Every time I try to suggest something, my father or my mother will say, “Oh, no, it’s better this way.” Actually, they both say it. Then they disagree about what the best way is, and send me out of the room. So I don’t have a lot to do.
Gabriel: Couldn’t you talk to your fiancé? What’s his name?
Mary: Joseph. And no. Now that we’re engaged, we don’t spend a lot of time together. He’s working. And I’m… not.
Gabriel: I think I can promise that your life is about to get more interesting.
Mary: Well, that’s good. What’s happening?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.
Mary: What did you just say?
Gabriel: Mary, you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to have a baby?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: How is that going to happen?
Gabriel: Nothing is impossible with God.
Mary: And this is God’s plan? It seems a little… unexpected.
Gabriel: I grant you that God hasn’t done this before.
Mary: And I’m having this baby… why?
Gabriel: He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David…
Mary: (interrupting) Did you just say I’m going to be the mother of the Messiah?
Gabriel: Yes. Yes, I did.
Mary: Wow.
Gabriel: You did say you were bored.
Mary: Yes. Yes, I did.
Gabriel: Are you less bored?
Mary: Now I’m terrified.
Gabriel: That’s not bored.
Mary: I think I need to go talk to Joseph. He’ll want to know.
Gabriel: I’m sure that’s true. Where is Joseph, anyway?
Mary: This way.
[MARY and GABRIEL exit]
Narrator: Nine months later…
Scene 2:
[SHEPHERD and SHEEP enter]
Shepherd: Well, another boring night.
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Why don’t you ever seem to sleep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: Have you ever thought of counting sheep, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[pause]
Shepherd: Well, I agree. Counting to one isn’t all that helpful.
[ANGELS enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: What?
Angels: Hallelujah!
Shepherd: Are you hearing what I’m hearing, sheep?
Sheep: Baa!
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Do not be afraid!
Shepherd: OK.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.
Shepherd: Could you repeat that?
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: I am bringing you good news…
Shepherd: Did you just say that the Messiah has been born down in Bethlehem?
Gabriel: That’s exactly what I said.
Shepherd: And we can go see him?
Gabriel: You can do exactly that.
Shepherd: And greet the father and the mother?
Gabriel: The mother for sure. The father, well, that’s a little tricky.
Shepherd: Are you going to explain that?
Gabriel: No.
Sheep: Baa!
Gabriel: Are you going to go visit the child?
Sheep: Baa!
Shepherd: You heard him.
Angels and Gabriel: Hallelujah!
Scene Three:
[ANGELS, GABRIEL, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP exit]
[MARY enters with BABY]
[GABRIEL enters]
Gabriel: Where’s Joseph?
Mary: He went looking around the town for baby things. We hadn’t brought anything. All we’ve got are these bands of cloth and a manger.
Gabriel: That’s going to be tricky this late at night.
Mary: Everything has been tricky. Explaining my pregnancy to my family, my friends, and to Joseph was tricky. Then getting summoned down to Bethlehem for the census was tricky. Then finding a place to stay the night was tricky. Having a baby in a stable was tricky. All in all, it’s all been tricky.
Gabriel: Well, I’ve got good news.
Mary: I’m not sure I’m ready for more of your good news. That’s what’s got me here in a stable with a newborn.
Gabriel: You’ll like this one. I’ve brought some people to give thanks for the birth of the Messiah!
[ANGELS, SHEPHERD, and SHEEP enter]
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: More angels?
Sheep: Baa!
Mary: And sheep.
Shepherd: Hi! Are you the mother of the Messiah?
Mary: And a shepherd. Where’s Joseph? When’s he coming back?
Gabriel: I know this isn’t what you expected, Mary. This is no palace. It’s not even your own home. Or a house, in fact. But you know what a miracle this is. You know, better than anyone, that God has been at work. These are people…
Sheep: (interrupting) Baa!
Gabriel: …and creatures who have come to understand God’s miracle as well.
Angels: Hallelujah!
Mary: That is pretty wonderful, now that you put it like that.
[THREE MAGI ENTER]
Gabriel: And look! More visitors!
Mary: Couldn’t they have waited until Joseph got back?
Magi 1: Look, it’s been a long trip. And we got lost. So we stopped for directions in Jerusalem.
Mary: Jerusalem? Where the king is?
Magi 1: That’s the place. That’s where a new monarch should be born, right?
Mary: Gabriel, this sounds like trouble. The king is not going to be happy to hear about the birth of a Messiah. Would you go fetch Joseph, please?
Gabriel: Ah. You’re right. This is trouble. We’ll take care of it. No problem. You guys, magi, king-like people: Don’t go home via Jerusalem. OK?
Magi 1: Really? The king seemed to want to meet this child. A lot.
Mary: Seriously, where’s Joseph?
Gabriel: Go home another way.
Magi 1: Well, OK. You’re the angel. In the meantime, we’ve got some gifts for the child. Here they are: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
[EVERYBODY stares at the gifts]
Mary: Wow. Joseph needs to see this.
Gabriel: He will. And you won’t need to worry about your safety. Shepherds, creatures, wise people from far away have come to rejoice in this child. The heavens themselves are celebrating. Take a look:
[STAR enters]
Mary: Oh, wow.
Star: Welcome, newborn Messiah!
Mary: Where’s Joseph? He should see this.
Star: He’s three streets away on his way back. I’ll light the way for him.
Mary: Thank you. Thank you all. Thank you for welcoming my baby into the world.
Gabriel: We’re glad to do it. Happy Birthday, little Jesus!
The ‘io is not famous for singing. It makes a loud cry, for sure, which is majestic and dramatic, but nobody would call it musical. Except, perhaps, for once long ago, so long ago that there were no people living here on Hawai’i Island, and it belonged to the birds.
You see, there was an ‘io who wanted to sing. She’d heard the ‘apapane and the rest. She’d even admired the more subtle honks of the nene. When, she wondered, could she sing like that?
One morning, as the sun rose over the sea, the ‘io felt the world change. One moment everything was as it had always been, the next she knew that something different, something extraordinary, something wonderful, had taken place. Somehow she knew, deep in her heart, that the Creator had become part of the Creation in a deeply special way. Somehow she knew, though she never knew the name and didn’t even know what a human baby looked like, that Jesus, the Christ, was born.
When you know something that’s that wonderful, you just can’t keep still. She leapt into the air and soared through the sky. But that wasn’t enough. She danced on the breeze, pirouetted through the sky. And that wasn’t enough. Even though she knew she couldn’t do it, even though she knew it would be the same cry she’d always made, she opened her beak to sing.
Then: she sang.
There’s an old story that on the night Jesus was born, the animals across the world gained the ability to speak in human language. Who knows if that was true on Hawai’i Island, where there were no people whose language they could speak? What there was, was singing. And on that Christmas morning, an ‘io sang.
She sang so loud and so well that the ‘apapane began to sing along, and even to make new harmonies. Then the ‘amakihi chimed in, and the ‘akepa. The koa’e kea soared above the Kilauea caldera, and both noio and pueo flew up from the seacoast and the grasslands. Every one of them, with a voice they’d never known before, sang.
The ‘io led them all in the song, making new melodies, new variations, new rhythms. As she did, she circled and rolled, dove and climbed, dancing on the air, as the smaller birds wheeled around her.
It didn’t last long. Songs, even songs of joy, have an end. The small birds went back to the nectar in the trees. The pueo returned to the grasslands, the noio to the sea.
The ‘io let her tired wings carry her back to a tall tree, where she settled and breathed in, breathed out, because it’s a lot of work singing and flying and dancing at the same time.
An i’iwi poked its beak out of the next tree and chirped, “Thank you for the good news and the good song.”
The ‘io nodded back and said, “You’re welcome. Thank you for singing with me.”
And that is how the ‘io sang a Christmas song.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (and improvisation), so the story as I tell it in the recording won’t precisely match what I originally wrote.
The nene (a Hawaiian goose) was going to change the world.
He wanted to change a lot of things. Some of them, he thought, might be more difficult than he could actually do. He wanted ‘ohelo to grow more evenly through year, for example. Without learning how to plant and cultivate, which is hard to do when you have wings rather than hands, he didn’t think he’d get that accomplished anytime soon. Still. It’s nice to have a goal.
Mostly, though, he had ambitions to change the way that creatures interacted with one another on Hawai’i Island.
Most creatures in the forest don’t bother one another very much. Yes, the i’iwi gets possessive about flowering ohi’a trees sometimes. Yes, the ‘apapane get touchy around their nests. And there are mongoose that eat eggs. The nene thought that could change, too, but like the ‘ohelo idea, he thought it would take some time to persuade the mongoose to turn vegetarian.
What he most wanted to change, however, was the careless actions of human beings.
Other creatures don’t bother nene much, but human beings do. They come walking up where nene are feeding, they pick food the nene need to eat, and worst of all, they drive fast through places where nene walk and rest. I’m afraid that the biggest danger to a nene these days is getting hit by a car.
So our ambitious nene developed a plan to stand by the side of a road and talk to the people driving by. Or, well, honk at the people driving by. Yell at the people driving by.
I’m afraid it didn’t go well. The cars went by at the same high speeds they had before. A few of them stopped instead. One person even got out and went over to try to pet the nene, who decided that flying away was the best thing to do.
He watched for some time as the cars raced by at the same high speed with no change at all.
It made him sad.
Another set of wings fluttered next to him. It was a curious ‘elepaio. “What were you doing?” she asked.
The nene told her he was trying to get people to drive more carefully.
“That takes a lot of doing,” the ‘elepaio observed. “There are a lot of people to persuade. How is it going so far?”
The nene admitted that it wasn’t working so far.
“There’s an easier place to start,” mused the ‘elepaio. “What if you started with yourself?”
“What do you mean?” asked the nene.
“It’s right to be concerned about what others do,” said the ‘elepaio, “and to get them to change it. But the first step and the easiest step is to do what you can about yourself. Step back from the road. Walk further away. Do what you did a few minutes ago, and fly away from foolish people.
“You’ve got to start somewhere,” said the ‘elepaio. “Start with you.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them on Sunday mornings from memory and improvisation. What you have just read is not exactly what you’ll see in the video.
The cattle egret is a relatively quiet bird. Most of the time it goes about its business of hunting insects and such without talking about it. When a cattle egret has something to say, it will say it. But if it doesn’t have something to say, it doesn’t say anything.
Unlike a lot of people you’ve met, I’m sure.
There was another bird who really wanted a cattle egret to say something. I don’t know why a saffron finch decided that he wanted wisdom from a cattle egret, but he did. Maybe it was their relative sizes (rather small to quite impressively tall). Not that size reliably indicates wisdom. Maybe it was the bright white feathers, but color doesn’t tell you much about wisdom, either. Maybe it was the silence.
Not saying anything until you have something to say could be a good sign of wisdom.
At any rate, it’s wiser than saying something when you don’t have anything to say.
The saffron finch landed on the ground near a cattle egret and the two of them fed side-by-side without speaking for a while. The cattle egret ate bugs. The saffron finch ate one or two spiders and a good amount of seeds. Neither of them chose to speak with their mouths full.
When he was feeling pretty satisfied, the saffron finch asked, “What’s the most important thing?”
The cattle egret looked around to see if there were any other birds the finch might have been talking to. She didn’t see any, but she also didn’t think that this was a question a complete stranger was likely to ask her, so she didn’t say anything.
“No, really,” said the saffron finch. “What the most important thing?”
The cattle egret looked carefully at the saffron finch. He was clearly asking her, though she didn’t know why. She took a couple more mouthfuls of insects to give her time to consider the question. Then she cleared her throat and said:
“Love.”
She looked around and didn’t see any more bugs, so she nodded to the saffron finch and took off to find another spot with more bugs. When she got there, she was surprised to find the saffron finch landing beside her.
“Could you say that again?” he asked.
“Love,” she said, and went on eating.
“Really?” he asked.
“Love,” she repeated for the third time.
“I’m not sure I know how to love,” he said sadly.
The cattle egret paused her hunting for a moment and looked carefully at the saffron finch.
“Ask,” she said.
“Really?” he said.
“Ask,” she said.
I’m still not sure I’d go first to a cattle egret for wisdom – which is mostly my problem for not understanding what a cattle egret might say – but I have to agree with this cattle egret. What’s the most important thing? Love.
And if you’re not sure how to love: Ask.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation, so it won’t sound exactly like you’ve just read.
The auku’u, or black crowned night heron, likes to eat. If you look out along the shallows of Hilo Bay, or in the rivers of the valleys, you’ll find auku’u perched on rocks or grass or just standing in the water looking for fish. Although they’re called “night herons” in English, in Hawai’i auku’u fish during the day, and do pretty well at it.
One auku’u, however, developed a somewhat unusual habit. He didn’t like being wet, which is a sad thing for a bird living in Hilo, and he discovered that if he waited for high tide he could spend less time with his feet in the water, since the water, as it were, brought the fish to him.
The thing about a high tide is that it happens just about twice a day, roughly twelve and a half hours apart. That means that sometimes high tide will be in the middle of the day, but a couple weeks later it’s well into the evening. At some times there would be two high tides during daylight, but at other times one high tide would be in the middle of the night. That meant he’d go over a day between meals. And that would make him hungry.
He was moping on the shoreline one morning, waiting for the next high tide (coming in at noon) when a friend landed near him. Noticing that he looked unhappy, she asked him what was wrong.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
She looked at him. Auku’u have been known to say, “I’m hungry,” but they usually say it while they’re on their way to start fishing. An auku’u sitting near the water and saying, “I’m hungry,” was a new and different experience. She didn’t know what to say.
“I haven’t eaten since about this time yesterday,” he said.
“For heaven’s sake, why? Aren’t there any fish?”
Then he explained about fishing at high tide.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re going hungry for hours because you don’t want to get your feet wet?”
“Do you like wet feet?” he demanded.
“I like being hungry a lot less,” she replied.
He was silent because, he realized, he like being hungry less than he liked having wet feet.
“Sometimes things are perfect,” she said, “like when you get to fish at high tide. But most of the time, we have to muddle along with things as they are. At those times you do the best you can, and look forward to it getting better later on.
“Now come with me,” she told him. “Let’s go fishing. I’m hungry.”
The two of them flew over to the shore.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory (plus improvisation), so what you’ve just read does not match what I said.
The noio, or black noddy, nests in the cliffs above the breaking waves on Hawai’i Island (and, actually, on lots of islands. They’re all over the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans). You’ll tend to find a lot of them close together. They raise their young together, they fly together, and they fish together.
One of the younger noio was fast, big, and strong. There were a few who were faster. There were one or two that were bigger. Nobody could remember anyone who was quite that strong, though. He used that strength to pick up fish that were just a little bigger than everyone else, and as you might expect, that was part of what made him big and strong.
One day as he was out fishing with lots of other noio, he saw an ‘Iwa, a great frigatebird, soaring around overhead. He didn’t think much of it until the ‘iwa dove down upon the flock of circling noio. It chased a noio who had just caught a fish until the noio dropped it, and then snatched the fish from the air, ate it, and climbed back into the sky.
Then the ‘iwa did it again. And again.
When it was no longer hungry it flew away. The frustrated noio returned to their fishing.
The big, strong noio was impressed. The ‘iwa had had a complete meal and never caught a fish on its own. That seemed like a lot less work than sweeping over the surface to pluck a squid from below.
So he tried it. He chased another noio, and it worked. The noio dropped its fish, and the bigger, stronger noio ate it. Then he did it again. And again.
The other noio squawked at him to no avail. He did it over and over until he was satisfied.
Nobody would speak to him later.
Nobody would speak to him the next day when he did it again. His friends, his cousins, even his own sisters wouldn’t say a thing except to squawk as he swooped and pecked to make them drop their fish.
Later, though, one of his uncles landed next to him on his ledge, which should have been crowded with noio, but everybody left when he landed. Except, now, there was his uncle, another big, strong bird.
“I heard what you’ve been doing,” said his uncle. “You’ve learned to be an ‘iwa.”
“I’m eating pretty well, too,” said the nephew. “You’re big enough to try it. It would work for you.”
“I did try it, long ago,” said his uncle, “but it wasn’t worth the price.”
“What price?” asked his nephew, though he already knew.
“The price of an empty ledge,” said his uncle. “The price of never having a friend, except for someone else who’ll bully with you, and who will bully you the first chance they get. The price of the skies emptying when they see you. The price of hearing only the wind and the waves when you should be hearing the cries of other noio.”
The nephew said nothing.
“Look around, nephew,” said the uncle. “Where are your cousins now? Who are your friends? Who do you fly with?
“Is it worth the price?”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I writes these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory (and improvisation), so what you read will not match what you see and hear.
I’m afraid it’s true that there are not many nene. They are easily outnumbered by the ‘apapane, and more than easily outnumbered by people. You may wonder why, if there aren’t that many of them, you hardly ever see them one at a time. I mean, wouldn’t you expect that a nene would go its own way from time to time, just to find some ‘ohelo berries of their very own?
One nene thought that independence sounded like the way to go.
He’d been to nene school, so he thought he knew it all. He knew how to find food. He knew how to fly. He’d done the drills at formation flying without getting excited about it. He was going to be the nene who made his own way, without relying on (and, you know, sharing with) the other nene.
So off he went to find his own spaces.
There’s a lot more of Hawai’i Island than there are nene, so it wasn’t difficult. If he spotted a little flock of nene in the air or on the ground, he’d just go somewhere else that they weren’t. That was lots of places, and plenty of those places had food, and water, and places to rest and relax. All in all, he thought he was having a pretty good nene life.
One day as he was in the air looking for another place to relax and eat, he heard the calls of some nene behind him. Glancing back, there was a little “V” shape of five geese flying in formation. They called out a friendly greeting, to which he replied – he liked being alone, but he wasn’t going to be rude about it.
What surprised him, however, was that the little “V” of nene was catching up with him. In fact, they passed him in the air, still calling out their “Hello!” He thought he was a pretty good flier, but they sped on by and he couldn’t keep up. It didn’t take long before they’d disappeared into the clouds.
How had they flown past him so fast?
Sometimes when you don’t know something and you don’t have Google, the best thing you can do is ask someone who should know. So he sought out his nene school teacher. When he found her, she was just finishing up a formation flying class. He waited, mostly patiently, until she was done, and told her about being passed by those other nene.
“Am I just so slow?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “You’re not slow. You’re alone. Flying together – in that ‘V’ formation – allows us to fly more easily. The wings of the birds in front create good flying air for the birds behind. It makes a difference. We can put more strength into it. We fly better together.”
“You mean,” he said, “that if I always fly alone, I’ll always fly harder and slower?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” she told him. “Together is the easy way to fly.”
Never let it be said that nene won’t learn. He found his own place in a little flock, and there in its “V” he flew easier and faster than he could remember doing before. Together is the easy way to fly.
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory plus inspiration. The story you just read will not match the recorded telling of it.
There is a lot to learn when you’re a young bird. Or a young human, of course. But this story is about a young bird.
He was an ‘amakihi, and he’d hatched, fledged, and flown. He’d toured around with a little flock of various forest birds, and he’d seen plenty of sunrises and sunsets. All in all, he thought he was pretty wise.
Then he saw a creature he hadn’t seen before. It was big. It was impressive. It soared along in the air on broad wings. He watched it from an ohi’a branch with awe. Such presence. Such grace. Such magnificence. Such size.
To his surprise, it landed in a neighboring tree, where it seemed to rest.
“What are you?” asked the young ‘amakihi.
“I’m an ‘io,” said the big bird. “Haven’t you heard about me?”
In truth, the young ‘amakihi had been told about the ‘io, but he hadn’t been paying attention. These things happen sometimes, have you noticed?
“I can’t remember hearing anything about you,” said the ‘amakihi with some truth. “What are you like?”
“Oh, I’m a very friendly bird,” said the ‘io. “I fly around overhead and watch out for all the other birds in the forest. All the birds are safe when I’m around.”
“That’s really great,” said the young ‘amakihi. “And what do you eat?”
“Oh, this and that,” said the ‘io. “Kind of like yourself.”
“You mean, bugs and nectar and fruit?”
“Kind of like that,” said the ‘io.
“I’m a little hungry myself,” said the ‘amakihi, “and this tree has been pretty well picked over. If you don’t mind I’ll see you later.”
“That’s fine,” said the ‘io, who fortunately for the young ‘amakihi wasn’t hungry at the moment. “I’ll catch you later.”
The ‘amakihi flew off, and the ‘io didn’t chase him, fortunately. A little later he found his grandmother, and told her about the bird he’d just met.
“The ‘io told you he protects the other birds?” said his Tutu.
“Oh, yes,” said her grandson.
“Don’t you remember what your mother and father said about the ‘io?” asked his grandmother sternly.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the young ‘amakhi. “I may not have been listening all that well.”
“That wasn’t a good time to not listen,” she said. “Didn’t you notice the ‘io’s beak, and the talons on his feet? Do you think those are good for eating bugs and nectar?”
And she told him what an ‘io eats. He was horrified and pretty surprised that he’d survived that conversation.
“Those who are danger to you won’t always tell you so,” said Tutu. “Sometimes they’ll lie about it. Listen to the warnings of those who love you. We may not always be right, but we will always tell you what we know and what we believe we know.
“And keep an eye out for those ‘io.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, and I tell them from memory during Sunday worship. Therefore, the story you’ve just read will likely differ from the story as I told it.
Photos of an ‘amakihi (top) and an ‘io (smaller photo on right) by Eric Anderson.
It’s a funny thing. When you hear just part of a conversation, it can be misleading. I mean, you might think you know what folks are talking about, but it turns out you might not.
In this case, it was a kolea, a Pacific Golden Plover, who overheard some people talking about heaven. And yes, he got confused.
He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven believed it was a really nice place. He heard enough to learn that the people talking about heaven didn’t expect to go there for some time. He heard enough to learn that the people believed that other creatures could also go to heaven.
He didn’t hear anything about it being a new life and a very different kind of place. He didn’t hear anything about dying as a transition from one kind of life to another kind of life. They just didn’t mention that while he was listening.
But at the end of the conversation, as the people were walking away, one of them said something about heaven being beyond the clouds.
People tend to talk that way about heaven because even though we have telescopes and can look a long way into space, “beyond the clouds” is something most of us don’t know much about, and the life God intends for us beyond our lives here is also something we don’t know much about. But the kolea didn’t know that. He said to himself:
“Those people can’t fly beyond the clouds, but I can. I can get to heaven myself.”
And he launched himself into the sky.
A kolea migrating from Hawai’i to Alaska, or from Alaska to Hawai’i, can get very high indeed. He flew up over the low clouds that were raining on Hilo. Then he flew up over the middle clouds that were spotted about around the slopes of Mauna Kea. Then he flew up even above the high wispy clouds above Mauna Kea.
Each time, he looked about for signs of heaven.
Each time, he didn’t see them.
“I must be close to heaven,” he said.
What he found as he circled higher and higher was that it got colder and colder. He’d felt that before, but as he flew higher than he had before it got colder than he’d ever known. He didn’t like that. He also didn’t like that the air got thinner. Not only was it harder to breathe, he had to flap his wings harder to move enough air to keep flying. In fact, there came a point that he just couldn’t go higher. Gasping, he let himself fall, then circle, and glide back down to the ground.
He landed, still winded, on some grass near another kolea, who hopped over to see what was wrong. “I tried to fly up to heaven,” he said sadly, and told her the story. “I must have been close, but I couldn’t get there.”
“That’s too bad,” she said to him. “Here, take a bite or two. There’s some tasty things here. And you’ll find some good water to drink just over this way.” She led him over to the food, and water, and a safe place to rest.
He ate. He drank. He rested. His breathing settled. His wings regained their strength. He looked at his new friend.
“You know, I flew a long way up to get close to heaven,” he said, “but you’ve been kinder to me than I can remember anyone else being. It might just be that I’ve been closer to heaven here than I ever was up there in the sky.”
by Eric Anderson
Watch the Recorded Story
I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory during worship. The story you just read and the story as I told you will not be the same.
Photo of a kolea (a Pacific Golden Plover) by Eric Anderson.
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