christianity

Story: How to Build a Nest – Or Not

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

September 27, 2026

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32
Matthew 21:23-32

A lot of birds build nests of some kind. Some are very simple, just a scrape in the earth. Others don’t build a nest at all, including the oh-so-brave manu-o-ku, which simply lays an egg on a branch. Some build pretty complicated nests. The ‘amakihi makes a very complex nest, and only the expectant mother does the building. Among the ‘apapane, both mother and father work at it. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

An ‘apapane couple was very excited because two of their children, both males, had found wives and decided it was time to hatch some eggs and fledge some chicks. These were their first, um, grandbirds, and that makes both people and ‘apapane very happy.

What they weren’t happy about was how the preparation was getting along.

Their first son flew over with his wife and they asked, “How’s the nest building going?” The younger couple looked around in embarrassment for a bit before they confessed that they hadn’t started. “How are you going to lay any eggs if you haven’t got a nest?” demanded the hopeful Tutu.

“Go build your nest,” said the grandfather (he hoped) to be, and to his surprise the younger couple said, “No.”

“What?”

“No. We’re going to rough it, like the koa’e kea. We’re going to keep it simple. Find a hollow in the rock. That will be enough.”

The parents were appalled as they flew off. A few moments later, the other son and his wife flew by.

“Please tell me you’re getting a nest ready,” said the grandmother-to-be.

“Oh, absolutely,” said her son, and his wife agreed. “It will be ready well before time.”

“What a relief,” said grandfather-to-be as they flew off. “At least we’ll have some grandchildren raised in a proper nest.”

Strange things happen among birds – and among people, too, but these are birds. That first couple, who were going to lay their eggs in a hollow in the rock, like a koa’e kea? They checked out those holes in the cliffs, and they looked uncomfortable and they felt uncomfortable. Shortly afterward, they were flying about the forest collecting mosses, twigs, and leaves. The nest took shape high in an ohi’a tree.

The other brother and his wife started work on a nest, but they got tired and bored. They barely poked at it. When they left it for a day or two, it began to come apart. No nest took shape. And they didn’t lay any eggs that year.

The ‘apapane grandparents were disappointed, but they were also thrilled. One son and daughter-in-law had said they wouldn’t prepare, but then they did, and raised three much-loved chicks to fledglings and adults. The other couple said they would get ready, but they didn’t, and it would be some time before they had their first nest, and eggs, and children.

“If you do the things to get ready,” said the grandmother to her grandchicks, “it comes out right.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write theses stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation on Sunday morning. The story as you read it does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of two ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

Story: The ‘Apapane Who Deserved More

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
A brown bird with lighter belly feathers, and some red feathers starting to appear. perched on greenery with a red flower filled with nectar.

September 20, 2026

Jonah 3:10-4:11
Matthew 20:1-16

‘Apapane chicks don’t all behave the same way, just as human children don’t all behave the same way. You have loud ones and quiet ones, greedy ones and hungry-but-not-pushy ones, polite ones and brash ones.

This ‘apapane nest had an assortment. There was one who was greedy and pushy, and mom and dad had to push him out of the way quite often to feed his brother and sister. The sister was pretty pushy herself, but not quite willing to get into wrestling matches with her brothers. The last brother, though, was quiet and polite. He waited patiently for mom or dad’s attention, ate his caterpillars with every sign of appreciation, and even chirped, “Thank you.” Politely!

His parents had had a number of chicks by then, and most of them had been pretty pushy when mealtimes came along. They didn’t quite know what to do with a polite chick, but they made sure they he was fed the same as his brother or sister, despite his siblings’ best efforts to get in front all the time.

They all grew, of course, and they learned to fly. The pushy brother and sister alternated between pushing to the front and loudly squawking that it was too scary to fly. The polite brother kept his beak shut, watched his parents closely, and when it came time for that first leap into the air managed a very creditable first flight. His brother and sister protested that they would have been better if they’d gone first, but they hadn’t, so…

The days drew on, and it was time to leave the nest. Mother and Father continued to feed them from time to time, but they were finding their own food, and they were getting better and better at it. The pushier siblings did, in fact, excel in seeking out new blossoms, bugs and caterpillars. The polite one tended to follow along behind and not get in anyone’s way. He ate just as well, though.

They were out of the nest, and the rambunctious chicks were making a somewhat rambunctious life. The polite one stayed near his parents, and to their surprise, kept making occasional flutters with his wings at them. That was a sign that he’d like something to eat – but he was fully capable of finding food himself. One day Mother just had to ask.

“What’s the matter? Why are you asking us for food? Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” said the polite son. “I just thought it made sense.”

“You thought what made sense?” asked Mother, who didn’t know.

“I’ve tried to be a good son,” he said. “I’ve tried to be calm and polite. I’ve tried to learn things quickly and well. I’ve tried to treat you, my brother and sister, and all the birds well.”

“And I appreciate it,” said Mother, who still didn’t understand what that had to do with wanting to be fed.

“Shouldn’t there be a reward for that?” asked his fledgling son. “Like more feedings, perhaps?”

“Feedings aren’t a reward, son,” said Mother. “Your father and I love you, and we love your brother and sister, so we’ve given you what you need. And you’ve grown. You’ve learned. You’ve thrived. Nothing we’ve done was intended to reward any of you. We’ve seen to your needs.

“But now you don’t need what you’re asking for. You have our love always, and it’s bigger than you know. But you need to be your own bird, and that’s how we’ll love you today: by giving you what you need. Again. Go find your own nectar, and enjoy it.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full beforehand, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as you read it and as I told it are not identical.

Photo of a juvenile ‘apapane by Eric Anderson.

About Five O’Clock

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“And about five o’clock he [the landowner] went out and found others standing around, and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard.'” – Matthew 20:6-7

I know this isn’t about me. How could it be?
The tales that people talk about, they feature princes, kings,
princesses, queens, and emperors (however poorly dressed).
They do not linger on the laborers.

This story is about the one who wandered in
the marketplace five times, and each time hired
workers for the vineyard, even as the sun was headed
for the horizon.

The light upon the market stalls was tinged with gold
(the only gold I’ll see) when he came by and asked
why I was idle, as if I hadn’t sought a place all day
to work and earn some bread.

“No one has hired me,” I said, for it was true,
a truth that meant a troubled sleep with empty belly
for myself and for my daughter, wife, and son.
In idleness was my despair.

“Go work,” he said, and so I’ll go, to earn
what bread I can. It will not be enough to feed
my hunger let alone the others in our creaky home.
It is but what it is.

Tomorrow I will hope to find this vintner
or his manager much earlier, and earn
a full day’s wage, and maybe eke a living from
the hot and penetrating sun.

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 20:1-16, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 20 (25).

The image is “The Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard” (central panel) by an unknown illustrator (11th cent.) – Codex Aureus Epternacensis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10315166.

Author’s Note: A number of commitments have prevented me from writing LectionPrayers in recent weeks, and it is more than likely that some added responsibilities around the office will prevent me from doing so in some weeks to come. I intend to resume this weekly reflection when I can return those tasks to other people. In the meantime, I consider a LectionPrayer in any week to be an accomplishment. Please bear with me.

Story: The Shallow Cormorant

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

August 30, 2026

Exodus 3:1-15
Matthew 16:21-28

Unusually, today’s story isn’t about a Hawaiian bird. It’s about a bird you’ll find along the coasts, lakes, and rivers of North America. You’ll find them way up north in Canada or Alaska in summer, and as far south as the shores of Mexico in winter. It’s called the double-crested cormorant, and I remember seeing these birds when I was a child in New England.

Like the noio or the koa’e kea of Hawai’i, the cormorant fishes for its food. Both the noio and the koa’e kea, however, fly over the sea and dive down to catch fish when they see them. The cormorant swims along the surface, then swims with its webbed feet down beneath the surface to catch fish. They’ll stay under up to half a minute, which is a long time to hold your breath, and they can swim quite deep.

Well. They can. There was one cormorant, however, who simply refused to dive deeper than a few feet. You know how it is. Some dives had gone badly for him, and he’d come up coughing and gasping for breath. “Try it again,” someone had said, without saying anything about how it could go better, and down he’d gone, got confused and frightened, and come up again gasping and coughing.

“No more of that,” he said. “It’s shallow dives for me.”

Other cormorants would swim 25 or 30 feet down in the ocean water, but not him. No more than five feet. Maybe six. He might dab his beak down a little farther to get a fish, but no more. Definitely no further.

One day he surfaced from a dive next to a friend. He’d already eaten the fish he’d caught four feet below the surface. His friend, however, was wrestling with a much bigger fish. It took some work and a couple tosses in the air to get it lined up right, but finally he ate it and looked really satisfied.

“You’re lucky,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t see fish that big very often.”

His friend was surprised and a little puzzled. “I see them all the time,” he said. “They’re right down near the bottom.”

“Oh, the bottom,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “You’re likely to find anything there.”

“You don’t go to the bottom?” said his friend. “I thought everybody did.”

“I dive as far as I need to,” said the shallow-diving cormorant. “I don’t need anything on the bottom.”

“But there’s these amazing fish down there,” said his friend. “Wait here; I’ll bring one up.”

He dove down, leaving the shallow cormorant alone on the surface… briefly. Because he came up quickly, carrying another of the big fish in his beak, and looking forward to sharing it with his friend. On the surface, though, he was alone. He saw a black speck heading for a perching rock. The shallow cormorant had flown away.

He asked his auntie about it later, who sighed. “Some birds are like that,” she said. “They’re content with what’s obvious, what’s on the surface, what’s easy. If you go deeper, you discover things, but they don’t want to know those things. They’re content with the surface.

“But if you go deeper, you find delights you otherwise would never have known.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a double-crested cormorant by Eric Anderson.

Story: Body of Nene

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Nine gray, white, and black nene (Hawaiian geese) along a shore - two in the water, the rest standing on land.

August 23, 2026

Romans 12:1-8
Matthew 16:13-20

He’d done it at last. He’d graduated from nene school. He’d learned to forage, and he’d learned to fly even better, and he’d learned to fly in formation. He knew everything there was to know about living well as a nene.

I have to say that that’s a pretty good accomplishment for anyone moving on in school.

So now he formally joined the flock as a certified adult nene. He was pretty young, but he was also pretty confident. After all, he’d done very well in school. What more was there to being a nene?

It turned out that the little flock had a leader. That surprised him, and it shouldn’t have. Learning to fly in formation, there had always been a bird, usually the teacher, at the very front of the “V” of the flock. The same thing was true among the adults in flight. Somebody had to be at the point.

“Welcome to the flock, youngsters,” said the leader kindly. “We’re so glad to have you here with us and to increase the flock. Let me just introduce you to some of our specialists here.”

The young nene was caught again. Specialists? But he held his tongue – for a moment, anyway.

“This is our ‘ohelo specialist,” started the leader, but the youngster interrupted.

“I know how to find ‘ohelo,” he said. “It’s easy.”

“We can all find ‘ohelo,” said the leader, “but she’s been able to spot it farther away than any of the rest of us. By all means tell us when you find ‘ohelo, but the chances are that she will spot it first.”

The youngster thought that seemed unlikely, but he didn’t say it.

“This is our pukiawe specialist,” continued the leader, “and he’s also really good at spotting ‘aiakanene.”

“I can do that, too,” interrupted the youngster again, and the leader calmly continued:

“We’ll find out if you can do that faster than him. Now, this nene is the best among us at forecasting the weather. If there’s a storm coming, she’s been great at telling us to find shelter in time.”

“Seriously, can’t the rest of you do that?” burst out the young nene. “It’s simple!”

“It’s simple when the clouds are getting tall and dark,” said the leader. “It’s not so simple when they’re white and fluffy.”

“Can’t any of you do anything?” demanded the youngster. “I can’t believe a flock would be so full of birds that can do only one thing.”

The young nene’s former teacher – who was also his auntie, since nene flocks are small – answered him. “Of course we can do all these things, nephew,” she said. “We can forage for ourselves, we can fly for ourselves, we can see danger coming for ourselves. We can all do that. You can do that. I know because I taught you.

“But some of us went beyond what all of us can do. They got really good at seeing storms coming, or spotting ‘ohelo in the lava field. I’m not quite as good at holding formation in a high wind, so I don’t take the lead when flying, but I am pretty good at teaching other fliers, so that’s what I do.

“Think of the flock as a nene made up of nene. Some have really enhanced their skills, and that means that all of us benefit from it. I can’t spot the ripe pukiawe as far away as he can, but on the other hand, he can’t teach how to find pukiawe as well as I can.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the leader said, “Welcome to the flock, young nene. Over time we’ll find out which of your skills we’re all grateful to receive. And you’ll find out which skills you’re grateful one of these other birds possesses and shares.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not exactly match the story as I told it.

Photo of a small flock of nene by Eric Anderson.

Conformed or Transformed

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment
A painting of a robed man holding a sword and letter.

“Do not be conformed to this age, but be transformed by the renewing of the minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God–what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:2

Who would know more about being transformed than Paul?
Not me.
How many were sightless in mind and then eyes like Paul?
Very few.
Who sought to transform his entire world view like Paul?
Not so many.
Who managed carry along all his quirks as did Paul?

Well, that’s me.

Who probably thinks of himself much too well (as did Paul)?
Yes, that’s me.
Who knows he conforms to the world’s expectation too well?
Me as well.
Who exaggerates just how much faith is within him? Any guesses?
It’s me.
Who struggles for balance between faith and knowledge and action?

Well, that’s me.

Transform me anew, living God, Holy One,
Conform me to mercy, encouragement, diligence.
Transform me anew, living God, Holy One,
That I may continue to follow your Way.

A poem/prayer based on Romans 12:1-8, the Revised Common Lectionary Second Reading for Year A, Proper 16 (21).

The image is The Apostle Saint Paul by El Greco (between 1610 and 1614; painting displayed at the El Greco Museum, Toledo, Spain – 1QEs4novinaf3A at Google Cultural Institute, zoom level maximum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=29844105.

From the available evidence, I think Paul’s besetting temptation was always arrogance and hubris. Writing to strangers, he held it in check in Romans. It’s much more visible in other letters – but I think his advice “not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think” was addressed to himself as much as his readers.

It is the one attribute I can safely say I share with a saint.

Story: One Loves

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments
Most of the frame contains a massive lava fountain, but also visible is a white bird with black bars near the end of its wings and a long thin white tail.

July 19, 2026

Psalm 86:11-17
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

The koa’e kea (white-tailed tropicbird) loved to fly. She loved to fly over the sea, and to hover over the water before diving to capture a fish or squid. She loved to fly over the land as well, to feel the thermals lift her wings as she crossed from sea to shore. And of course, as a koa’e kea from Hawai’i Island, she loved to fly around the Kilauea summit, with all the excitement of the rising hot air and, from time to time, the thundering lava fountains.

When Kilauea has fountained recently, she’s tried to be there.

“You can’t love all of these,” said a grumpy friend. “Love isn’t like that. You love some things, but that means that you don’t love other things. You can’t love all those different airs.”

“But of course I love them,” protested our koa’e kea, but her friend repeated:

“You can only love one. Just one. Love is for one. Pick just one.”

That’s all her friend would say.

How was she to choose? She couldn’t imagine. Yes, flying over the water could be more challenging, because sometime the spray would leap toward her, but she liked that. Flying over bare rock gave her a lift, and flying among and around trees and branches gave her a thrill.

She supposed that she probably loved flying around a lava fountain the best, but that was mostly because it didn’t happen that often. She flew over water every day. Lava only fountained once or month or so. If it happened every day, it wouldn’t so special, and she thought she’d probably love it, but not quite as much.

And besides, as much as she loved flying around the fountains, she still loved the other flying. How could she choose one? She just wanted to weep.

“What are you sad about?” asked another friend, one who wasn’t quite as grumpy as the first friend.

“How can I choose what kind of flying to love?” she asked, and was very surprised when her friend said:

“Why would you?”

She explained what their other friend had said, and he shook his head in unbelief.

“Love is bigger than that,” he said. “I love all sorts of things and all sorts of birds. Sometimes I love them in different ways. I love squid, but I love to eat it. I love my parents, but I’m not going to eat them.”

The two birds laughed at that.

“I think you’ve got enough love in you for lots of things, and lots of birds, and lots of different kinds of air and flying. Besides, it’s all the same in the end. It’s the world we were given, and I say we can love all of it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” said our koa’e kea. “I’ll love all of it. Come fly with me. Let’s have a lovely time.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories ahead of time, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it is not identical to the way I told it.

Photo of a koa’e kea in flight near a lava fountain by Eric Anderson.

Like Jesus

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments


“For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon’; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.” – Matthew 11:18-19

There was a time they said I looked like Jesus. I
had grown my hair quite long, and wore a beard
whose scraggly thinness I would not wish on a Savior.

Has anybody ever said I act like Jesus? I
cannot say I have overheard the words,
although it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nobody, I’m quite sure, has said I look like John,
or act like him. I’m no ascetic. As I said,
it’s true I like to eat and drink.

Nor does it matter. Whether clothes are soft
or ragged, whether wine is sweet or sour,
the task is still to testify to truth:

That God is real, and God is loving. God
cares about the ways we treat each other, more
than making regular appearances at worship.

God is not fooled by fools, and not by shrewd
deceit. Yes, God will judge, and yes, God will forgive,
but God will grieve for every sin we wreak upon each other.

So unconcerned about my clothes and diet, I
still wonder: does anybody think I act
like Jesus, righteous, showing love and grace?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 9 (14).

Photo of Eric Anderson by Eric Anderson.

During my first year of college, I was cast in a play set in the 17th century. To look “the part” a little better, all the male actors let their hair and beards grow. During my spring break back home, a number of old friends insisted that I looked like Jesus, much to my surprise and consternation. I think I’ve finally lost the portrait photo taken for the lobby display, which is all for the best.

Story: Fish Stories

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 4 Comments

June 28, 2026

Jeremiah 28:5-9
Matthew 10:40-42

I’m not a fisherman. You’re not likely to find me along the shore with a long fishing rod or standing in the shallows somewhere with a net. What I do know about fishing, however, is a piece of advice I’ve only picked up in recent years.

“It’s called fishing, not catching. There’s a reason for that.”

People who fish spend more time not catching fish than they spend actually catching fish, and that matches my admittedly limited experience.

The ‘auku’u doesn’t have much choice about whether to go fishing or not. If you want to eat, and your diet is basically fish, well, you’ve got to go fishing. For our young ‘auku’u here (you can tell she’s young because of her brown feathers and orange eyes; the older ones have blue-black feathers and red eyes), that wasn’t a problem. She liked fishing.

She liked catching better, but she didn’t mind fishing, at least if it led to some catching. The problem was that she wasn’t entirely clear on where to go to minimize the fishing and maximize the catching. That’s one of things you learn if you’re a young ‘auku’u, and she was still learning.

She knew two older ‘auku’u who were happy to give her advice. One was a cheerful uncle of a bird who was always enthusiastic about guiding her to good spots. The other was a rather gloomy auntie, and she was much more likely to say, “Don’t go to this spot; there’s no fish there.” The number of spots she could tell you had no fish in them was impressively long, but also downright depressing. The young ‘auku’u wanted to be told where to go, not where not to go.

So she tended to listen to the happy uncle.

It worked out less well than you’d hope. When she asked him, “Uncle, are there fish in that pool in the next cove?” he tended to say something like, “Oh, my, yes. I’m sure there are. Go have a good breakfast!” Reassured, she’d go see. Sometimes there were fish there, but more times than not, there weren’t.

She learned to ask him, “Have you checked that lately?” but he always said he’d checked it today, and strangely, the fish had often gone somewhere else by the time she arrived.

She did far more fishing than catching in the spots uncle suggested.

Gloomy auntie, on the other hand, didn’t get things wrong very often. There were times when uncle said, “Fish here!” and auntie said, “There’s no fish there,” and auntie had been right. When auntie said she’s found fish recently, there were always fish to catch there. She was always gloomy, but she was often right.

The young ‘auku’u asked her straight out one day: “Auntie, why do you and uncle tell me different things about fishing, and why don’t I find fish where he says more often?”

Auntie considered this question rather sadly, then said, “Niece, I tell you what I actually know about. I know the spots I’ve been to on the day, so I know when there’s no fish there. I might not always know where the fish are, but I can tell you where I haven’t found them.

“Your uncle, on the other hand, likes to tell happy stories, and he doesn’t check things before he tells them. Sometimes he’ll be right by pure chance, but most of the time he just doesn’t know and he says it anyway.”

The young ‘auku’u considered this. “Sunny stories are all very well,” she said to her auntie, “but fishing is fishing and catching is catching, and one of them will have me hungry and the other won’t. If it’s all right, auntie, I’ll ask your advice more than uncle.”

“That’s fine,” said auntie, “and when you have nieces and they ask your advice, try to tell them what you know, and not what you’d like to believe. They’ll eat better that way.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story as I wrote it does not precisely match the story as I told it.

Photo of an immature ‘auku’u (black-crowned night heron) by Eric Anderson.

Story: Worthy Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 5 Comments
A small green bird perched on a larger tree branch.

June 21, 2026

Genesis 21:8-21
Romans 6:1b-11

During the summer, some of the birds in the Hawaiian mountain forests like to gather into flocks. You’ve probably seen flocks of mynas around Hilo, and one evening I saw a big flock of cattle egrets, which was impressive, and I’ve also seen flocks of seven or eight nene flying about. Did you notice that those flocks have something in common?

They were all made up of the same kind of bird. Mynas with mynas. Cattle egrets with cattle egrets. Nene with nene.

The mountain birds do their flocks differently. They gather birds of different kinds together, so you’ll have ‘apapane (probably the biggest number), ‘amakihi, ‘akepa, i’iwi (not all of them are solitary and territorial), and even mejiro. The funny thing is that the birds in these flocks don’t entirely share the same diet. Some of them mostly eat nectar and may eat a bug or two from time to time. Others, like the ‘alawi, don’t eat nectar at all and rely on bugs and caterpillars.

So when an ‘alawi joined the flock, one young ‘apapane got huffy about it. “What use is an ‘alawi?” he asked a friend. “They’re not like us. They won’t help us find flowers in blossom.”

“They’re good at finding bugs,” said his friend. “Just watch.”

“I like nectar better than bugs,” said the first bird, and while she watched the ‘alawi hunt along a tree branch – and find some tasty caterpillars – he flew off somewhere else.

“I don’t think we should allow them in the flock,” he told someone else on another day, who ignored him.

You see, the flock was having a rough time. It had been dry on the mountains, and the trees weren’t flowering much. That meant that nectar was in short supply, but it also meant that the bugs who ate the nectar weren’t available, either. The birds didn’t know where the bugs were, and they didn’t know where the flowers were, and they were feeling the pinch.

“Look at that ‘alawi,” said the grumpy ‘apapane again. “He can’t even find the bugs I don’t want to eat.” The other ‘apapane gave him a sad look and flew off without a word.

“What use is an ‘alawi to any of the rest of us,” he asked one morning amidst a group of ‘apapane, ‘amakihi, and a haughty i’iwi. “Let’s get rid of this one, I say. There will be more for us.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said the i’iwi. “We flock together to help one another. That doesn’t mean that every bird has to be helpful every day, or even every season. Heaven knows I haven’t helped anyone find any flowers this year, and neither have you, ‘apapane. Let the ‘alawi alone. He’s just living his life, the same as you.”

“When is he going to prove his worth?” demanded the ‘apapane.

“When are you going to prove yours?” replied the i’iwi.

There was silence for a moment, and then the rustle of wings. The ‘alawi, who they hadn’t noticed at the edge of the group, had taken off.

“For pity’s sake, you’ve offended him,” said the i’iwi, and flew off after him. The other birds followed, including the arrogant ‘apapane, who really hadn’t intended the ‘alawi to hear him.

To everyone’s surprise, the ‘alawi led them, straight as an arrow, to a grove of ohi’a trees in full blossom. Plenty of the nectar-feeding insects were there, too. They sent a couple birds back to fetch the rest of the flock, and then settled in for the best breakfast they’d had in days.

The ‘apapane hopped over to the ‘alawi and said, “I’m sorry for what I said.”

The ‘alawi turned him a bright eye and said, “I didn’t hear anything. I just realized I could smell flowers on the air.”

He hopped over to a neighboring branch and plucked away a tasty spider. “But don’t worry,” he told the ‘apapane. “You’ll show your worth someday, too. Not that you have to, of course.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from memory and improvisation. The story I wrote does not precisely match the story I told.

Photo of an ‘alawi (Hawai’i Creeper) by Eric Anderson.