She was six years old when I first met her on the
beach near where I live.
I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four
miles, whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something
and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to
bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my
shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to
bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye
joy, I muttered to myself,
hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was
depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on.
Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have
another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of unruly
Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one
morning as I took my hands out
of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to
myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited
me. The breeze was
chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the
serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a
twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't
know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of
her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer
cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on
vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up
the beach, but my mind was
on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said
it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and
agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state
of near panic. I was in no
mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her
mother on the porch and felt
like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when
Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale
and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother
died!" and thought,
My God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before
and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with
myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding,
wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the
beach, she wasn't there.
Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I
missed her, I went up
to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the
door. A drawn looking
young woman with honey-colored hair opened the
door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed
your little girl today
and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy
spoke of you so much.
I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she
was a nuisance,
please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I said,
suddenly realizing
that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had
leukemia.
Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch
my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come,
we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of
what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..."
Her voice faltered, "She left
something for you, if only I can find it. Could
you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to
say to this lovely young
woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR.
P" printed in bold
childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright
crayon hues -- a yellow beach,
a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was
carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had
almost forgotten to love
opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we
wept together. The precious little
picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six
words -- one for each year
of her life -- that speak to me of harmony,
courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair
the color of sand
-- who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened over 20
years ago and the incident changed his life
forever. It serves as a reminder
to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy
living and life and each other.
The price of hating other human beings is loving
oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of
everyday traumas
can make us lose focus about what is truly
important
or what is only a momentary setback or crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means,
take a moment... even if it is only ten seconds,
to stop and smell the roses.
This comes from someone's heart, and is read with
many
and now I share it with you...
May God Bless everyone who receives this! There
are NO coincidences!
Everything that happens to us happens for a
reason. Never brush aside
anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can
teach us?
I wish for you, a sandpiper.
