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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?" I asked.
"It's a joy, my mama says sandpipers come to
bring us joy." The bird went gliding down
the beach. |
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"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 days and weeks that followed belonged to
others; 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. I had forgotten the child
and was startled when she appeared.
"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.
Her tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I
don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk," I said. 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.v Three weeks
later, I rushed to the 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?" she asked.
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstand, 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 how 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
muttered 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 serves as a reminder to all of
us that we need to take time to enjoy life,
living, 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 and what is
only a momentary setback or crisis. Today,
tomorrow, 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 |
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