A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
..by Robert Peterson
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 sandcastle 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 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 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.
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 seems 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 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 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 monetary setback or crisis. This weekend, 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 shared with many and
now I share it with you.
May God Bless everyone that 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?