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The
Sandpiper
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 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 as
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. Feling 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-coloured 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 by 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.
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