Learn, Baby, Learn

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

But the midwives feared God; they did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but they let the boys live. – Exodus 1:17

Learn, baby, learn.

All you know of the harshness of living on Earth
are the infant’s discomforts, the hunger, the wetness,
the missing embrace, the blanket unwrapped.
There are forces unknown which will end your discomforts.
They would open your veins. They would have you breathe the Nile.

Learn, baby, learn.

There are some who bear swords and will use them on you.
There are some who will tell them to slaughter and kill.
There are some who will rotate their heads in their shame.
There are some who will watch and will nod in approval.
There are some who will believe that their silence is speech.

Learn, baby, learn.

Learn of the men who build power through fear.
Learn of the women they threaten with terror.
Learn of the ones who will not tread the path
of violent obedience, life-stealing loyalty.
Learn of the midwives and of your own kin.

Learn, baby, learn.

Your mother has given your life to the Nile –
a desperate step, a foolhardy plan –
the river’s rough reeds, woven in pitch,
are all to preserve you from Pharaoh’s desire,
to stop up your breath with the waves and the flood.

Learn, baby, learn.

A woman retrieves you from your fragile ark.
Though raised up in power, it’s pity that rules her.
Compassion and courage have saved you, small one:
Bithiah’s mercy, Miriam’s courage,
Jochebed’s thoroughness, Puah’s fear of God.

Learn, baby, learn.

Learn the mercy, the courage, the constant attention.
Learn the creative ways to harbor the innocents.
Learn the eyes that perceive the power of pity.
Learn the power of pitch against the waters that drown.
Learn, budding prophet, to be faithful to God.

Learn, baby, learn.

A poem/prayer based on Exodus 1:8-2:10, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 16 (21).

The image is The Finding of Moses by Salvator Rosa (1660) – https://www.dia.org/art/collection/object/finding-moses-59779, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79699569.

The two midwives are identified as Shiphrah and Puah in Exodus 1:15. Moses’ sister Miriam is first named in Exodus 15:20, where she is described as “the prophet Miriam.” Mother Jochebed’s name is revealed in Exodus 6:10. The “daughter of Pharaoh” is not named in Exodus. 1 Chronicles 4:17 calls her “Bit-yah,” or “daughter of the LORD,” and is the source of the name I’ve used here.

Story: Stranger

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 20, 2023

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8
Matthew 15:10-28

When the young myna was a fledgling, he didn’t pay much attention to other birds around. As he grew he took more of an interest in the little flock and those around.

Mynas don’t typically pay a lot of attention to other birds – they save most of their squawks and shrieks for other mynas – but this young myna was a little more territorial. He thought the grasses and seeds and bugs and worms on his turf should be for the mynas, and pretty much only for the mynas. Other birds weren’t worthy. They could go wait in a corner until the mynas were done.

He would fly and shriek at the cardinals and finches and waxbills that settled on his flock’s patch of grass until they flew off to find a quieter place for lunch. The other mynas mostly ignored this; some birds go through this stage, they told one another. He’ll grow out of it.

To their surprise, there was one bird he was particularly mean to. He didn’t actually peck at this bird, but he’d get closer and scream louder and flap his wings harder at the kolea than any spotted dove. It might be because the kolea was actually slightly bigger than he was, so he put more effort into his, well, I guess we’ve got to call it bullying, don’t we? than he needed to for a little yellow-beaked cardinal. And I’m afraid the other reason was that the kolea was always alone. The saffron finches usually fed in pairs, but the kolea was always alone.

To this bully of a myna, that just made him vulnerable.

He’d scream and flap and chase and generally make himself obnoxious. The kolea never said a word, just hopped or flew aside until the myna was satisfied. And he always came back.

Until one day when the kolea wasn’t there, and the myna thought he’d won.

“I drove that one off for good!” he exclaimed, but there was a big myna argument going on so nobody heard him to correct him.

Months passed, and one morning he landed on his flock’s favorite grassy area to find the same kolea, resting peacefully and feeding on grasses and bugs and worms. The myna was furious.

“How dare you come back?” he shrieked. “You’ve no business here, you coward. I drove you off once, I’ll drive you off again!”

“Hold on a minute,” said an older, somewhat wiser myna. “What are you talking about?”

“I drove this pest away months ago. He hasn’t dared to show his beak since.”

“You didn’t drive him off,” said the older myna. “He spends the summers in Alaska.”

“Where?” said the bully myna, who’d never heard of Alaska, and of course the older myna had never been to Alaska, so it took some time to explain that the kolea had flown 3,000 miles over the ocean to get there, and another 3,000 miles to get back.

“That kolea’s no coward,” said the older myna in conclusion. “Nor are the saffron finches or the northern cardinals or the spotted doves. They just don’t like all the noise while they eat.”

The bully myna was silent. He couldn’t fly 3,000 miles and back, and he knew it.

“The kolea’s more worthy of eating here than I am,” he said.

“Everyone’s worthy of eating here, youngster,” said the older myna. “’Worth’ has nothing to do with being hungry and needing food.”

After that the young myna still had to be reminded to let other birds alone from time to time, but that was OK, because it usually meant that he got to screech at other mynas instead, and that, as we know, is just what mynas love to do.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories live without notes – so they will always be different from the text I’ve prepared.

Photo of a myna by Eric Anderson

Bad Day

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“Then the disciples approached and said to him, ‘Do you know that the Pharisees took offense when they heard what you said?'” – Matthew 15:12

I’m having a bad day, Jesus. I’d like to roundly curse
the next sad soul who crosses me – or simply falls
in front of me. I don’t much care if they have given me
offense or not. I’m just a sharing guy – sharing my bad day.

I see you know the feeling, Jesus. Did you care
you’d irritated anyone that day? They’d asked
about your followers and why they didn’t wash their hands
(I’d like to know myself). Was that so bad?

You counter-punched, and hard. You charged them with
a greed that left their parents sunk in poverty.
Okay, I’m sure that some had done precisely that,
but all? Oh, no. Though… they had not corrected it.

You called the crowds, and told them all their leadership
spoke excrement. No wonder they were angry, Lord!
You added extra measure, calling them “blind guides,”
when you knew well the blind can understand.

It’s good to step away from these things, Jesus, You had said
enough and more. You’d demonstrated all too well
the truth that what comes from the mouth defiles.
These leaders and your friends have heard it all.

I hear the cry for mercy, now. A desperate soul,
whose love has brought her to a foreigner
to bring her daughter to herself. And you –
you treated her far worse than you would treat a dog.

Now do you blush to hear the words again?
Now do you soften softly your hard heart?
Now do you praise the woman’s sharp perception
and persistence and bring healing to the child?

I’m having a bad day, Jesus. You would know
the worst of days, and take them better than you did
this day. Might you spare a moment then, I pray,
and soften stony heart inside of me?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 15:10-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 15 (20).

The image is Jesus and the Woman of Canaan by unknown artist (ca. 980 – 993) – Codex Egberti, Fol 35v, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8096755.

Story: Favorite

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

August 13, 2023

Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28
Romans 10:5-15

In the old days, ‘elepaio followed the canoe makers through the koa stands as they searched for tree trunks that were suitable for a canoe. They were and are curious birds, and they would watch the trees fall and the people removing the limbs and branches so they could bring the trunk down to the shore for a canoe.

The people watched the ‘elepaio, because as well as being curious, they were hungry. If an ‘elepaio settled onto a koa tree and began to chase bugs and spiders, or if an ‘elepaio did the same on a log they’d just cut down, the canoe makers would move on. If the ‘elepaio was interested, they concluded, the tree must be too full of burrowing bugs to make a good hull.

People don’t cut koa for canoes much any more, but the ‘elepaio are still curious and will still follow people through the forest.

Which doesn’t have much to do with this story, because there aren’t any people in it. There’s an ‘elepaio, of course. And there are koa trees. There is one specific koa tree, and one specific ‘elepaio, and that koa tree was his favorite koa tree.

I’m not sure why. There were plenty of koa trees in that part of the forest, and to my untutored eye they looked rather the same. Oh, some were a little taller, and some were a little shorter, and some were wider, and some were thinner, but his favorite tree wasn’t the tallest or the shortest or the widest or the thinnest. It was just his favorite tree.

When people choose things as their favorite, they tend to act differently around it. It turns out that ‘elepaio do, too. On all the other koa trees he would search long and hard for the bugs and spiders that made up his breakfast, lunch, dinner, and any-time-of-the-day snacks. On his favorite tree, however, he’d sit quietly. It was too special, he thought, to be hunting on it. To his distress, the tree wasn’t doing well. Some of its leaves were turning brown.

“What’s wrong with my favorite tree?” the ‘elepaio asked himself out loud one day. “I think it’s sick.”

“What have you been doing to it?” asked an ‘akepa who overheard.

“Nothing,” said the ‘elepaio. “It’s my favorite tree. I don’t even hunt on it.”

The ‘akepa hopped over to the favorite koa, and said, “That might be the problem. There are lots of bugs in this tree. I don’t think that’s good for it.”

Sure enough, the bugs the ‘elepaio hadn’t been hunting on his favorite tree were making that tree rather ill.

“How can I treat my favorite tree just like everything else?” he asked.

“What about if you thought about it the other way around?” asked the ‘akepa. “What if you treat your favorite tree as well as you can think of – including cleaning off all the bugs – and then treat all the other trees as well as you treat your favorite tree?”

“You mean, treat all of them really well?” marveled the ‘elepaio.

“Treat all of them really well,” agreed the ‘akepa, and that is what the two of them did.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, and then tell them in worship without the manuscript or notes. As a result, the telling is somewhat… improvised.

Photo of an ‘elepaio (not in a koa tree) by Eric Anderson

Father Fooler Fooled

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

“Now Israel loved Joseph more than any other of his children because he was the son of his old age, and he made him an ornamented robe.” – Genesis 37:3

You strive with family, heel-grabber.
You strive with God (hey, how’s your hip?).
You set up strife of wives and slaves
to seek your favor, bear your children.
So from your favored woman you select
a favored son, just as your father did
(and as your mother did on your behalf),
and with a single coat you paint a target on his back.

You seized the heel. You took the blessing and the land.
You wrestled through the night with God
and were not fully overcome. You stole
your flocks from Laban and his daughter stole his gods.
You’re set up well, heel-grabber.
You’re blessed, God-wrestler, in your tent.

But now they’ll fool you, Trickster man.
They’ve sold your favorite son away.
They couldn’t tell you that. Oh no, not that.
They’ll bring that stunning coat with tears
and stains and you will be deceived.
Your weeping will not move them to the truth.

Your sons have learned their lessons well,
just as you did from soft Rebecca’s words,
and as your father did from Abraham,
the father of his slave’s offspring,
the wife-concealer, son near-executioner.
Where, heel-grabber, will it end?

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 37:1-4, 12-18, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 14 (19).

The image is Brothers Sell Joseph into Slavery by Theodore Poulakis (between 1677 and 1682), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=120364437.

Story: Ohi’a at Rest

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 6, 2023

Isaiah 55:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21

How tall an ohi’a tree grows depends a lot on where its seed falls. If it falls into old, deep soil, rich with nutrients and able to hold water, the seed will spread its roots wide and raise its stem tall, until its leafy crown can wave eighty feet above the forest floor.

If the seed falls on the bare expanse of an old lava flow, however, the seed may struggle to sprout at all. It needs some soil, and the soil has to hold some water, but with time, an ohi’a’s roots can actually crumble some of the rock into more soil. In this way a plant with just a couple branches can grow into a tree – granted, still a small tree, but recognizably a tree and not a bush hugging the ground.

One such ohi’a seed had done just that. It had found a crack in an old lava flow, one that had contained some sand and some soil and would hold water. The ohi’a grew, and as it grew its roots found new spaces in the rock and filled them with soil. It took years, but one morning as the sun rose scarlet flowers bloomed along its branches, the red tendrils tipped with gold that gleamed in the morning light.

An ‘amakihi had already been visiting the little tree, because its leaves sheltered – almost – some of the bugs and spiders she liked to eat. She was the first bird to discover the ohi’a flowers in full bloom. She sipped their nectar and she ate the insects that had followed the scent of blossoms and basically enjoyed a good breakfast.

This went on for a while, with flowers blooming, then fading. After some time no new flowers grew, but where they had been, seed pods took shape. The ‘amakihi watched with interest as the pods split open and the winds took the tiny seeds and scattered them about the landscape.

And then… the tree did nothing. Well, it spread its green leaves, and it pushed out its roots, and maybe it got a little taller. But there were no new flowers, no new seed pods. Just… leaves and roots and stems.

One morning the ‘amakihi came by again to find the little tree aglow with crimson blossoms again. She rejoiced – she’d come to really like this tree – and she enjoyed her breakfast and lunch and dinner. She watched again as the blooms faded and the seed pods formed. She watched the tiny seeds sail away on the wind.

And then… nothing.

“What are you doing tree?” she asked one night as she settled in to sleep among its branches. “Why do you bloom and then stop?”

As I’ve noted before, trees talk in a dream. Sure enough, the tree replied in the whispery voice of air moving among leaves, “I’m resting.”

“Why do you rest?” asked the ‘amakihi, although she was resting as she asked (dreams happen while you’re resting most of the time).

“It takes a lot to make those flowers,” said the tree, “and to share that nectar with you and with the other creatures. Then it takes a lot to transform those flowers into seeds. I’m happy to do it, I’m happy to share, and I’m happy to be part of a new forest of ohi’a trees on this rocky ground – but I can’t do it all the time. Could you? Could you do anything day in, day out, forever?”

The ’amakihi wanted to say, “I could eat all the time,” but she was an honest bird and she knew she was asleep, and if that’s not resting what is?

“Rest well, tree,” she whispered.

“Rest well, bird,” came the soft reply.

All God’s creatures – including us – need our rest.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories first and then tell them from my (faulty) memory of the text I’d prepared. Differences are… inevitable.

Photo of an ohi’a in blossom (not resting) by Eric Anderson.

Following Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments

Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. – Matthew 14:13-14

Where is he, then? This Jesus who is my
last hope of healing from this bitter rash?
It lingers and it spreads; my friends all know
that without healing, I will be cast out.

So where is Jesus? Yesterday I knew
he had returned from Nazareth to learn
of John the Baptist’s execution. Then,
they say, his weary face dissolved in tears.

He took a boat, they say, and so my son,
his wife, and daughter, shepherd me along
the rutted hillside trails above the beach
so we can see the sails of Jesus’ craft.

We’re not alone. The path, though trampled firm,
shows sign of feet ahead, and we can see
that others follow us behind, and more,
I’m sure, beat down the trail I cannot see.

He sailed, this weary disappointed man,
to weep and grieve in peace, and I regret
that he will find a multitude of us
awaiting his attention and his care,

Yet not enough regret to risk my health
and home and loves and place to “it will heal,”
for healing’s failure ends the life that I
have known and cherished deep within my soul.

My son cries, “Quickly, father, come! The sails
a-shiver! Look! The boat has turned to shore!”
We stagger down the pathless bluff. Now I
can see the spray-flecked face regard us all.

Just for a moment, graven deep, I see
the hollows of the skull beneath the skin
worn thin by weariness and grief. “He’ll turn
the boat,” I whisper, “out to sea, away.”

He gestures to the sailors and they strike
the sail, then bring the boat ashore. He stands,
he leaps upon the strand. He takes three steps
and people gather all about him there.

First one, then five, then ten, then dozens more
present their bodies’ and their souls’ dis-ease.
He comes to me; he sees my skin, he sighs,
and tells me not to fear. I will be well.

Before he turns away, I have to ask,
“You could have turned your craft far from this shore.
Why did you stay?” He gently says, “My friend,
I’ll always be with those who follow me.”

The day has drawn toward dusk. Somewhere they found
a heap of bread, and even some dried fish
to share about this seething crowd. My skin
is softening. I know I will be well.

Soon we shall follow once again the ruts
along the bluffs, this time toward hearth and home,
but not the same. For any path I take
to any place from here: I follow him.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 14:13-21, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 13 (18).

The illustration is Feeding the Multitude from The Life of Jesus of Nazareth, Eighty Pictures by William Hole (1908) – http://www.jesuitas.org.co/documentos/dominical/GabrielPerez/100705.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3222948.

Author’s note

Like a lot of clergy, I tend to identify primarily with Jesus in this story. We have something of a self-narrative that we are people who get asked to do many things. If I’d been in the boat, I’d have wanted to sail to somewhere else that the people seeking me couldn’t reach. This poem takes the perspective of those who tracked those sails along the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee, and helps me understand why Jesus didn’t do that. In a very real, embodied sense, those thousands of people followed Jesus.

Story: The ‘Apapane Who Lied

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

July 30, 2023

Genesis 29:15-28
Romans 8:26-39

Generally, ‘apapane are pretty honest birds. They give warning calls when there’s danger near, they sing “Waiting for the rain to end” songs when it’s raining, and they sing “Oh, look what I’ve found!” songs when they’ve discovered a tree particularly rich in ohi’a blossoms.

One day an ‘apapane had a different idea. He had sung his “Waiting for the rain to end” song when it was cloudy, not raining, mostly because he was sure it was going to rain. Even though nothing ever fell from the sky, a number of birds, ‘apapane but also i’iwi and ‘amakihi, took shelter for a few minutes. It didn’t take long for them to come out again when the rain didn’t happen, but it started him thinking.

A day or two later he found a lovely ohi’a tree just dripping with nectar and already attracting a number of the bugs he liked to eat as well. He told some members of his family and a few close friends to wait for him in a certain spot, while he flew over to a place where there were trees with a few blossoms on them, but nothing like what he’d found on that one tree.

There, surrounded by mostly greenery, he sang his “Oh, look what I’ve found!” song.

When he heard wings approaching he flew off low to one side and circled back around to where his friends and family were.

“Somebody’s found something,” said his sister. “We should go see.”

“I just found something better,” he said. “Follow me.” And they did.

As a result, their little group of ‘apapane had quite some time enjoying the nectar-rich flowers before other birds discovered it – as a result, I should say, of them singing their own, “Oh, look what I found!” song.

He repeated the trick a few days later when he discovered another very nice tree, and about two days after that, and a couple days after that, and he was very pleased with himself.

He was caught, of course, and that was by his grandfather. There were rumors going about that some of these “Oh, look what I found!” songs seemed to be overly optimistic at best and downright deceptive at worst. Grandfather had perched at the top of a tall ohi’a and heard the early morning call from a group of trees he knew was pretty sparse for flowers. He looked for the flash of red and black wings, and when he spotted it, he followed. To his surprise, they led first to a little flock of his own family, and then to a tree that glowed red in the morning light.

As the birds fed, he perched next to his grandson. “Come,” he said, pointing to a neighboring tree. “We need to talk.”

When they both had landed on a branch with enough flowers for a breakfast that wasn’t nearly as extravagant as the other tree, the younger ‘apapane wanted to know what it was about.

“Grandson,” said the elder. “You’ve been lying.”

“Not to you, tutu,” protested the younger one. “Not to any of our family or my friends.”

“I appreciate that,” said grandfather, “but truth isn’t just for family or friends. Truth is for everyone.”

“What’s the harm?” demanded the grandson. “Everyone is getting fed. I haven’t prevented anyone from finding good trees. I mean, I haven’t driven anyone away.”

“You’ve misled them – and concealed that it was you doing it,” said grandfather.

“Well, sure. Because then they wouldn’t trust my song,” said the younger one, and that was when he realized.

“Because I wouldn’t be worthy of trust, would I?” he asked.

Grandfather said nothing.

“Because I haven’t been worthy of trust, have I?” he asked.

Grandfather and grandson sat quietly for a few moments.

“I’ll be worthy of trust, Tutu.”

“I know you will.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I tell these stories from memory of what you’ve just read – without a manuscript or notes. Inevitably, it varies from the text I’ve prepared, as it does today.

Photo by Eric Anderson

Author’s note

I found myself with a real quandary in developing a story that comments on Genesis 29, a text with so much that just makes me stop and go, “That’s not right.” Bringing its themes to children (or even to adults) looked impossibly difficult. Finally I settled on one theme of Jacob’s saga, something that happens again and again to cause pain and distress to the people involved: deception and lies. Thus this story about lies and truth.

Leah’s Prayer

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

“When morning came, it was Leah! And Jacob said to Laban, ‘What is this you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel? Why then have you deceived me?'” – Genesis 29:25

O Holy One of Abraham and Isaac
and of my husband-now-by-fraud, Jacob:

Hear my prayer.

My veil is now cast off. But will he view
my face by flickering lamplight, or
instead will he embrace me knowing that
I am my sister. How could he not know?

I shiver here, O Holy One, for fear
of what he’ll do upon discovering
he’s been deceived. My face has never pleased
him. Will he break it in his rage?

What am I doing here? My father claims
I need a husband and to be the first
to wed, before my sister does, and so
I stood a-shaking in the gown and veil.

My sister, I am sure, wept bitter tears
which I imagine I could hear during the vows,
and which I still hear echoing
within this dark and stifling room.

God, here I am, compelled to wed,
and soon I’ll be compelled to mate,
and then I’ll be compelled to bear,
and bear resentful eyes of sister and of him.

What can I do? Where could I run?
Perhaps I’ll speak to him, but to what end?
The deed is done – except the deed, of course –
and who will credit anything I say?

Oh, God. There’s laughter in the hall.
My father’s voice, and his. Dear God.
Preserve my life this night from violence,
and bring me safe to morn.

Perhaps a dawn will come, some day,
when Jacob, Rachel, and myself will laugh
as Jacob laughs outside the door,
and then we’ll weep for all the pain we’ve borne.

Quick, God! Oh, spirit me away!
I dread this night, and fear the morn,
and cannot see beyond these hours
a future brighter than this unlit room.

He comes.

A poem/prayer based on Genesis 29:15-28, the Revised Common Lectionary Alternate First Reading for Year A, Proper 12 (17).

The image is Jacob and Laban with Rachel and Leah, artist unknown (Bologna, Italy, 17th cent.) Image posted by https://clevelandart.org/art/1939.666.a, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77173131.

Story: Protecting the Tree

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

July 23, 2023

Genesis 28:10-19
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

An i’iwi overheard some people talking one day about a disease that was harmful and even fatal to ohi’a trees. He followed them and listened closely as they took care to clean their shoes and avoid bringing the fungus spores to where healthy trees were. The i’iwi decided that he would help protect his favorite ohi’a tree.

It wasn’t a very big tree, which was one of the reasons it was his favorite. It had a nice shape and plenty of leaves and it tended to blossom quite freely, which made it a great place to find safety and enjoy a good meal of ohi’a nectar. And because it wasn’t very big, it was a size that he could guard.

Guard it he did. When ‘apapane came by, he drove them off, and likewise amakihi, mejiro, and even the little ‘elepaio. They squawked and complained, but a determined i’iwi is difficult to convince, so they all went to other trees.

The i’iwi then set out to make sure that the tree was safe from being infected by insects that might carry the dangerous fungus. He flicked bugs off the leaves and branches with his wings, with his toes, and with his long curved beak. The spiders and insects didn’t try to argue. It’s hard to argue when something many times your size has kicked you off a branch when you’re a long way up in the air. Some tried a second or a third time, but found the i’iwi ready for them, and so they headed off as well.

The i’iwi found himself pretty much alone in the tree, and quite satisfied, settled down to sleep as night fell, prepared for another day of defending his favorite tree.

As the wind moved the tree limbs, however, his dreams turned strange. It seemed like the tree was speaking to him. “Why are you doing this?” asked the tree. “Why are you chasing everyone away?”

In a dream, of course, you can talk to trees, so the i’iwi said, “I’m keeping away everything that might make you sick. I want to keep you well.”

The tree creaked thoughtfully for a few minutes – trees think long and deeply – before replying.

“That’s good of you,” said the tree. “I appreciate the thought. But has it occurred to you that if no one visits me, my flowers don’t become seeds?”

That had not, in fact, occurred to the i’iwi, who hadn’t known it. Most plants blossoms attract creatures like honeybees, who in traveling from flower to flower bring the pollen that enables the blossoms to produce seeds. In the ohi’a forest, this gets done by bees, and by beetles, and by birds such as the amakihi and ‘apapane and yes, the i’iwi.

“If nobody visits other trees, and nobody visits me, there won’t be any seeds,” explained the tree.

The i’iwi didn’t know what to do. “If they visit you, you might get sick,” he said, “but if they don’t visit you, there won’t be new ohi’a trees.”

The tree limbs sighed in agreement.

“We’ll have to chance it,” said the tree. “But thanks for the effort.”

“We’ll have to chance it,” said the i’iwi. “May it all go well.”

You and I can still help protect ohi’a trees by cleaning our shoes before entering ohi’a forests and not moving ohi’a wood around and by taking care to not damage the tree bark when we’re in the forest. But the i’iwi and the birds and bees of the forest will also be sipping nectar and flying from tree to tree, and its risky – but it’s also how the next generation of ohi’a will take root and grow.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

On Sundays I tell these stories from memory of the text I’ve prepared (which you’ve just read above). Between failures of memory and the creative impulse, they are not identical.

Photo of an i’iwi by HarmonyonPlanetEarth – I’iwi|Pu’u o’o Trail | 2013-12-17at12-43-209 Uploaded by snowmanradio, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30241880.

Rapid Ohi’a Death (ROD) is a real danger to Hawai’i’s ohi’a forests. Read more here about how to prevent its spread.