Stories

Story: In Front of Your Beak

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

August 18, 2024

Psalm 34:9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20

The ‘elepaio had a problem. She was hungry.

This is not an uncommon condition for an ‘elepaio, or for that matter for any bird up in the forests of Hawai’i. They tend to be small birds, but the things they eat are also small, so they tend to eat often or, to put it another way, whenever they can. Kind of like a human child in the middle of a growing time.

This ‘elepaio, however, had a somewhat different problem. It wasn’t that there wasn’t food around. There was plenty. It was that, well, she liked to look ahead.

Again, plenty of ‘elepaio look ahead. They’re the curious birds of the forest. They check out the people moving through the woods, and they check out the trees – for food, generally. But they do it up close and personal. If you’re walking through the forest and an ‘elepaio wants to find out more about you, they’ll perch pretty close.

This ‘elepaio, however, had somehow got the idea that the way to learn what was happening was with the big picture only. She’d perch high in a tree, looking out over the slopes for signs of the insects that she ate. And… she’d find them. Sure. Bugs get around, and you’ll find them high in a tree. What you won’t do is see them in a distant tree. They’re small. They don’t move the leaves and branches. In fact, if you look at leaves and branches from a distance, you’ll pretty much see… leaves and branches.

She was so intent one day on looking for bugs in distant trees that she didn’t hear her mother land behind her.

“Child,” said her mother, “what’s the problem?”

“I’m hungry,” said her daughter, “and I’m having trouble finding bugs to eat.”

“Why do you think that is?” asked her mother, as she watched a bug walk along the very branch her daughter was perched on.

“I think it’s just hard to do,” said the young ‘elepaio, who now had two bugs crawling along in front of her.

“Could it be that you’re looking too far ahead?” asked her mother, who knew it was.

“I don’t see how it could be,” said her daughter, who was so still that one of the bugs was near to climbing onto her.

“Look right in front of your beak,” said mother, and her daughter looked. Then she looked again, and then she ate one bug, then the other, and found two more on a nearby leaf.

“Better?” asked her mother.

“Better,” admitted her daughter, “but shouldn’t we be looking ahead for things?”

“It’s useful to look to the distance,” said her mother, “because there are important things there, which might be bugs, or storms, or a hunting ‘io. But there are also important things right in front of you, like breakfast, and water, and the materials for a nest.”

“And someone to teach me to look there,” said her daughter.

“And someone to be with you and care for you,” said her mother.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, in full, but I tell them from a combination of memory and new creation. Therefore the recording does not match the text above.

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

Story: The ‘Apapane Bully

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 28, 2024

2 Samuel 11:1-15
John 6:1-21

Last week I told you a story about an ‘apapane who, when he was selected to lead a mixed flock of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi, learned a lesson about proper leadership. He may not have liked learning it, but he learned it, and in just two or three days.

This week, I’m sorry to say, the story is about an ‘apapane who didn’t learn that lesson in their week as leader, and… Well, maybe I should just tell the story.

He was big for an ‘apapane (not so big for an ‘io). That made him bigger than pretty much all of the birds, especially the smaller ‘akepa and ‘alawi. Other ‘apapane tended to hop or turn out of his way when he came to their branch or crossed his flight path. Even i’iwi, who tend to be the more aggressive of the forest birds, learned to recognize this ‘apapane and stayed out of his way.

It seemed natural that such a big, strong, confident bird should be selected as leader. Right? Leadership is what big, strong, confident people – er, birds – are for. Right?

It didn’t go well.

First of all, he didn’t really pay attention to the other birds. He’d just give orders. “Go find a better tree!” he ordered one bird, who was nearly caught by an ‘io that the leader hadn’t troubled to look for. “Let’s go!” he shouted when they headed to a new tree, but he didn’t bother to make sure that all the birds heard it. Half of them stayed behind. When he discovered that, he flew back to the old tree, screamed and shouted, and even beat at one or two of them with his wings.

Worst of all, he picked on the smaller birds. He’d find ‘akepa sipping nectar and he’d push them out of the way. He pecked at ‘alawi with his beak if they got close. And if they weren’t close, he’d hop over and peck them.

In short, he’d crossed the line from “leader” to “bully.”

Flock elders talked to him, and the next day went the same. His parents talked to him, and the next day went the same. Flock elders came in a group with his grandparents – always listen to tutu, right? – and it went exactly the same the next day.

The flock had had enough.

The last morning of his leadership, five flock elders perched before him. “Just so you know,” they said, “you will not be elected leader again.”

“How can that be?” he screeched. “I’m biggest and strongest. I’m made to lead!”

“We require leadership,” they told him. “We will not tolerate bullying.”

“You’ll do what I tell you!” he shouted.

“No,” they said. “Never again.”

Every single bird in the flock turned away from him. Not one turned in his direction. Not one followed his screeched orders. When he flew over to peck at an ‘akepa, ten other birds flew over and formed a living shield to protect her.

“You’ll be sorry!” he shrieked and flew away.

But as far as I know, that flock has never been sorry that they know the difference between leadership and bullying, and that they insist on leadership, and send bullying away.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I writes these stories in advance, then tell them from memory on Sunday morning. It’s a different medium, and the results differ, too!

Photo of an ‘apapane (who is not, as far as I know, a bully) by Eric Anderson.

Story: ‘Apapane Leadership

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 21, 2024

Jeremiah 23:1-6
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

After the eggs have hatched and the chicks have learned to fly, many of the birds of the ohi’a and koa forest will come together in mixed flocks of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, and ‘alawi. They stay together to find ohi’a and mamane trees in blossom, which would also have attracted some tasty bugs.

It was the custom of one flock on the slopes of Mauna Loa to select a leader each week to keep the flock together and organize a watch for dangerous or suspicious creatures like cats, ‘io, pueo, and, well, people. The leader would look around for trees bright with flowers and guide the hungry birds toward them, while making sure nobody got left behind. It wasn’t the easiest thing for a bird to do, but most of them handled it pretty well.

One ‘apapane had been eagerly awaiting his turn to be flock leader. He was no longer that young, having seen a few summers and winters. He was something of a silent critic of the weekly leaders, silently scoring them on his own checklist. That one didn’t spot the mamane tree in blossom as fast as he had. This other one had been slow to get the birds moving. And this other one hadn’t properly spotted the watcher birds for ‘io. They’d spotted the hawk in plenty of time anyway, but it hadn’t been right.

At last came the week when the birds in the flock chose him as their leader for the next week. He was proud. He was excited. He was also… going to do something fairly complicated for the first time, and he was absolutely convinced that he knew exactly what should happen.

The result, the next morning, was a lot of birds screeching at one another, with their purported leader screaming the most and the loudest. He screeched at the ones who were supposed to be watching when they perched on a branch other than the one he’d selected. He screeched when they were ready to head to a new set of trees, and screeched when one or two birds headed off in the wrong direction. He screeched when a bird remained behind, and nearly pecked his tail as he flew right behind him to get him to the rest of the flock. He screeched when it was time to nap. He screeched when it was time to settle down to sleep.

When he turned about, one of the older birds, an ‘apapane kupuna, was perched behind him. He opened his beak to screech at her, but shut it quickly. He knew better than to screech at her.

“What have you been doing?” she said, “and don’t screech at me.”

“I’ve been leading,” he said, “like I’m supposed to.”

“You haven’t been leading like you’re supposed to,” she said rather severely. “You’ve been driving like you’re not supposed to. You’ve had birds who know perfectly well what to do confused and upset. Some of them went hungry today. While you were chasing that one bird there were two others that set off in the wrong direction and I had to go get them.”

“They should have listened to me!” he said.

“How could they,” she asked, “when you didn’t give them a clear direction?”

He was silent for a moment.

“You’ll try it again tomorrow,” said the kupuna ‘apapane, “and tomorrow you’ll plan, and you’ll chirp softly, and you’ll listen to the birds who know what they’re doing, and you’ll keep an eye on things and let other birds know when there’s a problem that they can help you with.”

“Be wise,” she said, “and attentive, and assuring. That will keep the flock with you, and fed, and comforted, and safe.”

Oh, it took some work, I tell you. But she was nearby the next day whenever he opened his beak to screech, and only one or two screeches got out. The day after he didn’t screech at all. By the time his week as leader was over, they followed him gratefully and gladly. Because he learned from his mistakes, and he learned how to lead.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full and in advance, but I tell them from memory and from improvisation. What you hear in the recording is not what you read above it.

Photo of an ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: God’s Creatures Dance

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 14, 2024

2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12-19
Psalm 24

You wouldn’t think it, if most of your experience of honu is when they’re napping on the shore, but they were the ones who got it started. They started the dance.

Which one it was nobody remembers, because it was a long time ago, and sometimes the beginnings of things get forgotten, like the way children really want to forget who broke the peanut butter jar. The story simply says that a honu looked up at the stars, and saw the clouds lit by the moon above, and felt the water splashing gently on his shell, and he said, “Gotta dance.”

Now, a napping honu looks like a clumsy thing, but a honu in water can dance circles around a human swimmer. He glided, and he shook, and he made tight circles, and he whirled in place. When his head broke water an ‘ulili on the shore called out, “What are you doing?”

“I’m dancing!” replied the honu. Then, after glancing about, “Lots of us are dancing!”

Sure enough, the water teemed with the shells of honu breaking the surface, and their flippers waving as they dove back down to soar below the waves.

“Why are you dancing?” asked the ‘ulili.

“With the world as glorious as it is, what else should I do?” called the honu, and then he glided beneath the water again.

“What else indeed?” said the ‘ulili, who took her next steps with even more bounce in her long legs than usual. It didn’t take long before she and the other shorebirds were highstepping and bouncing and gliding along the rocks.

“Are you dancing?” asked a myna, perched in a low tree.

“Of course we’re dancing!” said the ‘ulili. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would,” said the myna, and he took off to do his own dance in the air. He was soon joined by other myna, and by mejiro and saffron finches. And because what one myna knows soon other mynas will know, because they’ve got loud voices and they use them, the word spread along the beaches and up the mountain slopes. ‘Apapane danced to the music of their songs. Noio made their dives for fish with flair and grace. Even the pigs in the forest hopped back and forth to their own private rhythm.

They all danced like the only ones watching were the ones dancing with them. They all danced with a deep sense of being the one and only star of their dance, and a deep sense of dancing in the biggest dance group ever. They danced, and I’m sorry to say that the only ones who didn’t recognize it, and didn’t join the dance, were the people. I grant you that most of us were asleep at the time.

As dawn approached, the creatures from the summits of the mountains to below the waters ceased their rhythmic movements. They stretched their wings or flippers and they took at look at tender feet. Without a sound, they settled into the activities of the day.

I’m afraid they heard no applause, but there was One who applauded, and that was God. God had made them to rejoice in who and what they were, from the ‘io to the ‘apapane, from the noio to the honu. God applauded, and if they didn’t hear as they sorted themselves into a good nap, they settled into rest with glad hearts.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, then tell them from memory. As a result, the stories I tell aren’t precisely the ones I prepare.

Photo of an ‘ulili (a Wandering Tattler) by Eric Anderson.

Fighting the Storm

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

July 7, 2024

2 Corinthians 12:2-10
Mark 6:1-13

I like honu (green sea turtles). How about you? It’s just so comforting to me watching those sea turtles raise their flippers to the surface to breathe and look around, and then taking them down to snack on the seaweed, then turning themselves about like the most agile of dancers, then hauling themselves out on the shore to get a good solid nap in the sun.

I like honu.

It’s hard to believe that one could be a bully, but I’m afraid this story is about a honu who did become a bully. He’d shove smaller turtles out of his way as he grazed on seaweed. He knocked shells with honu who were in the spot he wanted to sunbathe in. Actually, he’d knock shells with a honu just to get it to move, then he’d nap somewhere else. He slapped other turtles with his flippers, he nipped them with his mouth, he’d slide over them when they surfaced to breathe, he… well.

He was a bully.

I’m sorry to say that, mostly, it worked for him. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and I guess part of the reason he was mean was that he didn’t have a lot of friends. But he ate a lot, and he got comfortable spots on the beach, and other honu didn’t pick on him, no they didn’t. So, as I say, it mostly worked for him.

Until, one day, he decided to bully the ocean.

The winds were strong and the surf was high that day. Rain lashed down from overhead so that even a honu found it difficult to tell where the sea top ended and the air began. Spray flew in sheets. Wavetops tossed careless fish into the air.

And this honu decided to go nap on the beach. I don’t think he expected to find sunshine there, but when somebody expects to get things his way all the time, who knows?

The problem was that the waves at the surface tossed him about, and when he dove down, the currents underwater dragged him back to sea. He was trying to get to one specific part of the beach, but the wind carried him along past where he wanted to go, and when he tried to swim back against it, he couldn’t – at least not from where he was. He lashed his flippers at the water both at the surface and deeper down, and in neither place could he make much headway.

Eventually he let the underwater current carry him back out to sea, where he surfaced and howled in rage – which is very rare for a honu – at the winds and the surf.

An older honu drifted by and said, “What’s the matter, youngling?”

He wasn’t that young, but she was a lot older (and bigger), so he didn’t quite yell back when he said, “The stupid wind and waves won’t get me where I want to go!”

“Watch the youngling there,” said the older honu, and he did. A younger, smaller turtle, one that he’d bullied any number of times, had positioned himself in a place where the combination of wind, waves, and current would carry him toward the beach. He made just the smallest of adjustments with his flippers as the water bore him along. Just at the beach, he dipped down to slow himself in the current going back and to avoid being thrown onto the shore from the top of a wave. Then he slid onto the shore, and slowly moved up on his now-active flippers.

“You can’t bully the sea, youngling,” said the older honu. “You shouldn’t bully anything, but especially not the ocean, which won’t notice you at all.”

It took him a long time to learn that lesson deeply, I’m afraid, and he spent a number of storms tossing about in the surf. Eventually, though, he learned that sometimes you don’t fight, you follow. And when he did, he fought less with other honu, and a bully learned to do better.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

Due to a technical error, the story was not recorded this week.

Photo of a honu (who showed no signs of being a bully) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Not Doing So Fine

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 30, 2024

Lamentations 3:22-33
Mark 5:21-43

He was the oldest pueo in the nest. He was the best. He did things right.

At least, that was his opinion.

It wasn’t his younger sister’s opinion, but that frequently happens with younger brothers or sisters. They tend to think an older (or a younger, come to think of it) sibling can’t do anything right. Oldest children, however, or oldest fledglings in this case, tend to think, “I’m right. I’ve got this. Depend on me.”

And before you ask, yes, I was the oldest child in my family.

To his sorrow, it turned out his mother didn’t think he did everything right, either. She wasn’t like his sister, who didn’t think he did anything at all right. No, Mother was far more specific. She didn’t like the way he flew, or hunted for food, or caught it. “You’re beating your wings too fast,” she’d tell him. “You’re not paying enough attention while you’re circling,” she told him. And, of course, “You’re coming down too fast.”

The problem was that everything she told him happened to be correct. He was an overeager flier, and he tired himself out. In that fatigue haze, he didn’t look carefully for mice on the ground, and he’d miss them. So far his dives to catch prey hadn’t been complete disasters, but they weren’t getting better, either.

“I’m doing fine,” he hooted at his mother.

“No, you’re not,” she hooted back.

Exasperated, he flew off alone, without his mother or his sister, to avoid her steady barrage of corrections.

That worked. Well, it stopped the criticisms. At least the ones he could hear with his ears. His mother had succeeded, however, in creating some mother memory in his head, and he could still hear her telling him to fly slower, look more carefully, and for pity’s sake, control your dives.

But he didn’t change any of that. Which is why, after missing several swoops and getting hungrier and hungrier, he made a desperate dive for a mouse and crashed right into a bush. He crawled out, leaving behind several feathers in the process, and found his little sister waiting for him.

“Are you OK?” she asked, and she meant it.

“Mostly,” he said, feeling rather bruised.

“You need to talk to Mom,” she said. “Actually, you need to listen to Mom.”

He knew he did, but he also knew how much he’d annoyed her. “I don’t think she’d help me after all I’ve put her through,” he said.

His sister shook her head. “She absolutely will,” she fussed at him. “Go ask Mom for help. Say you’re sorry. But ask her for help. She will.”

They flew back together, and he did say he was sorry, and he did ask for help, and he finally started following her instructions, and he finally started to learn.

His sister couldn’t resist telling him, “I told you so,” but he was grateful to both of them anyway.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory. I improvise a lot.

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

Story: Mother Memory

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 23, 2024

1 Samuel 17:32-49
Mark 4:35-41

The ‘amakihi was, everyone had to admit, an adult. Even her mother had to admit it. She was young, sure, but she had her adult feathering, she had lots of hours of flight time, and she knew the difference between a tasty bug and a yucky bug.

(Which I don’t, by the way. I’m inclined to think they’re all yucky bugs.)

Her mother, however, continued to give her good advice. She pointed out the tasty bugs. She pointed out the blooming ohi’a blossoms. She pointed out the ripe fruit. She even said, “Oh, look, it’s nighttime,” as the sun set beyond Mauna Loa.

“Mother is so boring,” said our adult ‘amakihi of a daughter.

“Why do you tell me these things all the time?” she asked one day, and her mother replied, “Because a day will come when I’m not around when you have a question. I want to make sure I’m always with you in your memories for such a time.”

“But it’s so boring,” said the daughter, but she said it to herself because she didn’t want her mother to hear.

One day, exasperated by another recital of the bugs that weren’t good to eat, she took off and flew fast and far. She didn’t pay a lot of attention to where she was going. When she got hungry, she’d stop for a nectar snack or a bug break. Then off she flew again.

When nighttime came, she realized that she had no idea where she was.

What should she do? she wondered. And as if her mother was there, but she wasn’t, she heard in her memory the words, “Look, it’s nighttime. Find a branch with greens around it and settle down to sleep.”

So she did. In the morning her mother’s voice in her memory guided her to tasty bugs and ripe fruit. But now she had to remember the more difficult thing: how to find her way home.

“Look at the slopes,” said her mother in her memory. “We don’t live on Mauna Loa, so don’t fly that way. But fly up the slopes of Kilauea until you find the crater at the top.”

She followed the rising slopes but didn’t turn up Mauna Loa. After some time, she saw some familiar trees. After a little longer, she saw the great crater at the summit. She made her way around it until she found the stand of trees where her nest had been.

And… found her mother.

Her mother fussed at her for a while about being away overnight, but her daughter said, “Please, let me say this,” and mother fell silent.

“Thank you,” said her daughter, “for being with me in my memory to get me home.”

I’m afraid that from time to time afterward, she did get exasperated with her mother and think she was boring, but… she never fussed or protested, because of how important it was to have her mother in her memory to help her find her way home.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory. And sometimes, as today, things happen that have to be acknowledged – like a mother clear saying to her son, “I told you so.”

Photo of an ‘amakihi by Eric Anderson.

Story: Over and Over

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 16, 2024

1 Samuel 15:34-16:13
Mark 4:26-34

The ‘apapane was still young. So young, in fact, that his feathers were black and brown, rather than black and red. He had another month or two to go before he’d wear red feathers.

So he was still young. It turns out that he was old enough to have had something very scary happen to him, and he still thought he’d had a very narrow escape. He’d been perched in a tree eating bugs and nectar from ohi’a flowers when he heard the rush of air moving quickly over big wings. He immediately hopped along the branch toward the tree trunk.

Sure enough, he saw an i’o had swooped down to a neighboring tree, where he landed. The i’o just sat there for a few minutes, looking all about. The young ‘apapane was absolutely certain the i’o looked directly at him at least three times. He stayed absolutely still. Then the i’o stretched his broad wings and climbed into the sky, where he vanished a minute later.

Now the ‘apapane started to tremble. Truthfully, the i’o probably hadn’t even noticed he was there and had just landed to catch his breath and consider where he’d go next. That never occurred to the ‘apapane, of course. He was convinced that the i’o had seen him, tracked him, and stooped down at him, and that he’d escaped in the nick of time.

He had to find a way to be more aware of potential dangers. Obviously sitting in a tree he was more distracted, but on the other hand he was only a hop or two from safety. The dangerous times, he decided, were in flight. How could he look all around?

I’ll just mention that an ‘apapane’s eyes are set on the sides of their heads, so they already can look all around. He wasn’t quite thinking about that.

Instead, he decided to fly with a series of barrel rolls.

That’s when a bird (or a plane, or Superman, I suppose) rolls over as they fly. If you or I did it, we’d be spinning. It did allow him to see above, below, and to each side. To that extent it worked.

The problem was that it made him dizzy. If you or I were to do a lot of spins, we’d get dizzy. When this ‘apapane did a lot of barrel rolls, it made him dizzy.

Dizzy enough that his next landing in a tree looked rather painful.

Still, he kept trying it. “Eventually it will work,” he told himself, so he did exactly the same thing in exactly the same way. And exactly the same thing happened. He got dizzy, and he landed badly.

He couldn’t really see what was in the sky around him, because when his head cleared after his latest rough landing, he saw his father perched on the branch beside him.

“What are you doing?” said father.

“Watching for i’o,” said his son.

“Is it working?” asked father.

“I’m sure it will,” said his son.

“What are you doing differently?” asked his father.

“Nothing,” said his son. “I’m doing the exact same thing every time.”

“And leads to the exact same problem every time, doesn’t it?” said his father.

“I have to watch for i’o,” mumbled his son.

“Try turning your head rather than your whole body,” said his father. “Try weaving your flight from side to side. Try anything that’s different – because, my son, what you’re doing right now isn’t working, and doing it over and over again the same way won’t make it better.”

You may sometimes see an ‘apapane do a barrel roll as it flies about the ohi’a forest, but when it does, it’s to pull off a fancy landing or just to celebrate the joy of flight. He’d learned something from the wisdom of his father: try something different.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory and improvisation. As a result, what you’ll see and hear in the video recording does not match what you’ve just read above.

Photo of an immature ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: Part of the Flock

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 9, 2024

Genesis 3:8-15
Mark 3:20-35

The three nene goslings had grown from the day they’d hatched. They’d joined their parents on walks around the nest area, which had grown longer as they’d grown stronger, to find the grasses and berries that made them a good breakfast. And lunch. And supper. And any-time-of-the-day snack.

Nene don’t really have a lot of use for set times for their meals.

The three goslings had learned to fly once their feathers had grown in and their wing muscles had become strong enough. They’d flown with their mother, and they’d flown with their father, and they’d flown with them both, and a few times just the three of them alone. They’d had something of a scolding from their parents the first time, but not after that.

They thought they’d got themselves set up for living. They had family. They had food. They had flight. What more could you ask?

It turns out that there was something else. To family, food, and flight, they needed to add: flock.

“What’s that?” asked one of the goslings, who hadn’t heard the word before.

“It’s more nene, dummy,” said his slightly older sister, who had heard the word.

“Don’t call your brother dummy,” said their mother.

“Yeah, don’t call him dummy, even when he is,” said the youngest of the three, a little brother who had been practicing teasing his siblings and become good at it.

“Stop teasing,” ordered their mother, “and listen.”

“We’re part of a larger flock,” said father patiently. “We’re a small family, and the other nene are the bigger family. They help us find food when it’s scarce, and they help us keep i’o away, and, well, it’s good to have them there.”

“I don’t need anybody else,” said older brother. “Food, family, and flight. And even some of my family could be better behaved.”

“Look, son,” said mother, “when I was young I didn’t think I needed a flock, either. But the world is bigger than what you’ve seen so far, even though you can fly. There’s an ocean and there are people and there are other creatures. In the flock we get some help when we’re confused. We learn things we wouldn’t otherwise know.”

“Fly with me,” said father, and the little family took off and soon landed amid a larger, but still rather small, group of nene. He introduced the three youngsters to the others.

“You need to become part of the flock,” said one of the new nene, who was actually a kupuna nene. “Fly with us.”

So they did. They took off together and did a series of circles around the place where they’d met. It wasn’t elegant – none of the young nene had been to Nene School yet, so their formation flying was pretty awful. Still, they did their best, and as they flew they realized that the air flowed over them differently when it was shaped by other birds’ wings. As they landed, they realized that the group had chosen a different place, one where the ‘ohelo was abundant.

“You are now part of the flock,” said the kupuna nene. “We are glad to have you fly with us.”

The next day, of course, they began Nene School, so they could eat better and fly better. And they were glad to fly with their new flock.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full (it’s what you just read), but I tell them from memory during Sunday worship. Memory and improvisation creates some differences!

Photo of nene in flight by Eric Anderson.

Story: Nest Rest

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

June 2, 2024

Deuteronomy 5:12-15
Mark 2:23-3:6

Among the ‘apapane, both members of a couple, both the father-to-be and the mother-to-be, work together to build their nest. They collect some twigs and some grass, but mostly they roam the forest to find mosses that will be both strong and soft to hold the eggs while they wait for them to hatch.

As you might think, first time ‘apapane parents can get rather anxious about things. It’s like anything else: if you haven’t done something before, you probably have a lot to learn. You’ll do some of that learning while you do things, of course. It’s how an ‘apapane learns what moss will be strong and soft and how another moss dries up and crumbles. Those crumbly moments, however, can make them feel pretty upset. They get really keyed up about what isn’t working, rather than realizing that they’re learning as they go.

‘Apapane and people, too, can learn a lot from things that don’t work.

One first-time father-to-be got very excited about building his first nest. He and his wife worked hard to get all the pieces together, and to poke and weave them into place. They got up early in the morning and they worked until sundown. And they made a lot of progress.

But he couldn’t see it.

At first it was just a bit of moss or two, but somewhere on the first day he found a set of mosses that just didn’t hold up in the nest, and on the third day that part was coming apart. A big portion of the nest had to be redone. He started to panic.

That night he worked an hour, and then a second hour, after sundown, when there just wasn’t enough light in the forest to show him what mosses were what. Inevitably, the next morning they had to replace some of what he’d added. He panicked some more.

“We won’t have it ready on time!” he moaned.

“Of course we will. Don’t worry so much,” said his wife, but I’m afraid he didn’t listen.

That night, and the next, he didn’t work an hour or two after sunset. He worked all night long, with only a brief nap on the second night. The results were… uneven. Some parts of the nest showed great progress. Other parts of the nest suffered from poor materials. And other parts of the nest just didn’t look right, because he’d been trying to place pieces of moss without a good idea of where they should go.

Truthfully, it was kind of a mess.

That’s when his mother showed up.

“Don’t look! Don’t look, Mom!” he called. “I know it’s not much to look at, but we’re fixing it.” (In fact, his wife was quiet fixing the things he’d got wrong in the middle of the night.)

“I’m not worried about that,” his mother said. “I’m worried that you haven’t slept. Now have you?”

“I slept a little,” he protested.

“Enough?” said his mother.

With his spouse looking on he couldn’t lie, and lying to your parents is a bad idea anyway. “Not enough,” he said.

“Night is for resting,” Mother said, “not for guess-and-place nest building. You can’t find the right materials when you’re tired, and you can’t put them where they belong, either. Go get some sleep before you go back to it again.”

“I can’t leave her to do this all alone!” he protested, and mother-in-law and daughter-in-law looked at one another, then back at him.

“You won’t be helpful until you’ve slept. Go do that. I’ll fill in for you today. Tomorrow you can do it again, and do it right.”

So he did, and the next day he came back, and sure enough: well-rested and together, he and his spouse did it right.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, then tell them from memory in worship – which means that the version you just read and the version you might see in the recording will not be the same.

Photo of an ‘apapane in flight by Eric Anderson.