The Sandpiper

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I

lived. I drive to the 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"

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 belong 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

word, why was I saying this to a little child?

"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."

"Yes," I said, "and so was 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 it. "Where is she?"

"Wendy died last week, Mr.Peterson. She had Leukemia. Maybe she didn't

tell you."

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

"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, anything, 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 a 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 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 speaks 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: I hope you have a few Kleenex tissues left in that box. The above

is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. And 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

momentary 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, and stop and smell the roses.

Back to Homepage

 

1