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.
This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson.
NOTE:
I hope you have a few Kleenex tissues left in that
box. The above 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.
