christianity

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.

Story: The Merciful Myna

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

June 14, 2026

Exodus 19:2-8a
Matthew 9:35-10:8

This may sound a little bit odd to you – it sounds a little bit odd to me – but one of the mynas that lives near our church decided to listen to the sermon. Without falling asleep, which is a nice trick. And as you know, I’ve been talking about God’s mercy recently.

This myna woke up one morning and decided, “I’m going to be merciful today.”

The problem was, how could a myna be merciful? He thought about it while he had breakfast, and he couldn’t think of a thing. Mercy would be something like rescuing stranded sailors from a disabled ship. He couldn’t do that. Mercy would be something like healing a bird with a broken wing. He didn’t know how to do that, and there was also the fact that none of the birds around him had a broken wing. He was smart enough to abandon the notion that he could break their wing and then fix it.

“That wouldn’t be merciful,” he said to himself, and he was right.

While he was thinking, one of the other mynas jostled him and he hopped back and said, “Pardon me.” The other myna said nothing, just kept pecking at the ground.

A few minutes later that same myna bumped into another couple mynas and a screeching argument began. Our myna stopped thinking about being merciful and hopped over to calm them down. The bumping myna wanted to yell some more, but was persuaded not to. The bumped mynas wanted to whack him with their wings, but some gentle tones calmed them down.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A little later, he noticed a house finch hopping nervously about at some distance from the myna flocks. She looked hungry, but the ground she was on had already been picked over by hungry mynas. “Hop over here,” he suggested, and she gratefully did, and began to enjoy her breakfast.

“How am I going to be merciful?” he wondered.

A cat wandered along to the edge of the grass, and the mynas, finches, and sparrows didn’t notice until he spotted it and screeched, “Into the air, everyone! There’s a cat!”

They all took to their wings and settled again in branches and on roofs as the cat pretended to just be going from here to there, thank you, and walked away. Some of the other mynas wanted to peck and annoy the cat, but our wanting-to-be-merciful myna persuaded them not to.

The whole day went like that. He tried to think of ways to be merciful, and he didn’t think of a single one.

As the sun was setting he found an auntie and poured out the whole story to her. “You want to be merciful,” she said. “Don’t you think you were merciful when that bird bumped you and you didn’t get into a fight? Don’t you think you were merciful when you calmed the other birds down? Don’t you think you were merciful when you invited that finch to feed, or when you warned everyone about the cat?

“Mercy can be big and grand, nephew. Mostly, though, it’s small things that matter a lot. You won’t always get thanks for it; some may not even notice. But it’s mercy all the same.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in full in advance, but I tell them from memory and inspiration, so the story you read does not precisely match the way I told it.

Photo of a common myna by Eric Anderson.

But I Can’t

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 2 Comments

“[Jesus said,] ‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Cure the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those with a skin disease; cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment.'” – Matthew 10:7-8

Give without payment, O Lord? But I can’t.
How will I eat, where will I sleep,
if I don’t have a contract or letter of call?

What do you mean, life has no guarantee?

Cast out the demons, O Lord? But I can’t.
I’m not sure I’d recognize a demon in person,
and surely I’m lacking the strength for such spirits.

What do you mean, my strength is in you?

Cleanse those with a skin disease, Lord? But I can’t.
Ask my dermatologist. My own skin’s a problem.
I cannot heal myself, let alone someone else.

What do you mean, bring healing, not cure?

Cure the sick, you say, Lord? But I can’t.
I’ve no more control over illness of body than skin.
Send the physician to those who are sick.

What do you mean, you are a physician of souls?

Raise the dead, you say, Lord? But I can’t.
If I had such power, I’d have used it already,
to hold all the loves that I’ve lost in my life.

What do you mean, give hope to the hopeless,
strength to the fainting? What do you mean,
pilot the rudderless, encourage the fearful?

What do you mean, breathe life into your Body?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:35-10:8, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 6 (11).

The image is The Sick Awaiting the Passage of Jesus (Les malades attendant le passage de Jésus) by James Tissot (between 1886 and 1894) – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.118_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195961.

Watch… Me?

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 1 Comment

[Jesus said,] “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.'” – Matthew 9:13

Would you like to know what blessing is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what light is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what righteousness is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what love is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know what honesty is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

Would you like to know faithfulness is? asks Jesus:
Watch me.

If you watch me, says Jesus, you will find compassion.
You will find forgiveness.
You will find welcome.

If you watch me, says Jesus, you will find healing.
You will find inclusion.
You will find life.

The challenge, says Jesus, for those who would follow me,
is when people would know about
blessing and light, righteousness, love.
When people would know about
honesty, faithfulness, healing, inclusion, and life:
What will they see when they watch you?

And I ask:
What will they see
when they watch me?

A poem/prayer based on Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26, the Revised Common Lectionary Gospel Reading for Year A, Proper 5 (10).

Photo by Eric Anderson.

Story: Those Birds

/ Rev. Eric Anderson / 3 Comments

May 31, 2026

Genesis 1:1-2:4a
2 Corinthians 13:11-13

A lot of the honeycreepers in the mountain forests have brightly colored feathers. I think I’ve mentioned that before. The ‘apapane and the i’iwi are bright red and black. The ‘amakihi and the ‘akiapola’au are bright yellow. The ‘elepaio has these fascinating speckles in its feathers, even if they aren’t all that vibrant.

And then there’s the oma’o. The oma’o is basically gray. Gray head. Gray wings. Gray belly. Some brown in the back, but basically gray.

This oma’o felt perfectly fine about that. He didn’t see the need to show off his feathers. He was content to sing out with a good song when he felt like it, and to eat the berries and bugs he found. All in all, he felt pretty good about the world.

Except for the i’iwi.

He couldn’t help but notice that some of the i’iwi in the forest had some bad habits. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were feeding. They didn’t like other birds nearby when they were singing. They didn’t like other birds nearby most of the time. If an ‘apapane settled nearby, they’d chase her away. If an ‘amakihi perched in a neighboring tree, they’d chase him away. Sometimes it felt like the most common sound in the forest was the wingbeats of an i’iwi chasing another forest bird.

Some i’iwi live alongside other birds without feeling the need to chase them away from flowers in blossom, but the oma’o didn’t actually notice that. It’s the noisy ones that get attention in the forest just as it is among people. The oma’o’s eye passed right over inoffensive i’iwi as their aggressive cousins chased ‘apapane and ‘amakihi away.

“I’iwi are evil,” the oma’o announced one day after one had bullied three ‘apapane, an ‘amakihi, and a confused ‘alawi (who doesn’t even eat the same food as and i’iwi) out of the neighboring stand of ohi’a trees. “Something should be done.”

“Like what?” asked his sister, who was perched nearby.

“I don’t know,” said the oma’o, “but look at what’s happening. What kind of world is that for ‘apapane and ‘amakihi to live in?”

The sister said nothing then, but she did some thinking. Could an entire kind of bird be evil? Could a combination of feathers and beak and diet and song make you automatically harm others?

She perched near her brother a couple days later and asked, “How are you different from the i’iwi?”

“That’s simple,” he said. “I’m not evil.”

“Okay,” she said, “but you’re alike in a lot of other ways. You’ve got feathers, and you fly. You’ve got a beak and feet that can wrap around a branch.”

“They’re nothing alike,” he protested. “My beak is straight and short; the i’iwi has one that is long and curved. I’ve got gray feathers; they’ve got red and black. I eat berries, they eat nectar. Most of all, I don’t chase other birds.”

“Do you think their red feathers make them chase other birds?” she asked. “The ‘apapane doesn’t. Or their curved beak? The ‘akiapola’au doesn’t. Or their diet of nectar? The ‘amakihi doesn’t.”

She looked him in the eye. “Isn’t it true that you don’t chase birds because you choose to? Isn’t it true that some i’iwi choose to, and some don’t? Isn’t it true that you and I have more in common with an i’iwi than we do with a nene, who doesn’t bother much of anyone at all?”

He had nothing to say.

“We’re all birds of the forest up here,” his sister told him. “We choose good and bad. I’iwi aren’t just evil. They’re our cousins, too, sometimes for better, and sometimes for worse. We can only encourage everyone to be better to one another.”

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Story

I write these stories in advance, but I tell them from a combination of memory and improvisation. The story as I first wrote it does not match the story as I told it.

Photo of an oma’o by Eric Anderson.