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 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 the sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went glissading 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.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy,... and 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, Mrs. 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, 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 never-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, Mrs. 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 even to 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 on 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,and yesterday and the day before that and-oh,go away!"
"Did it hurt?"
"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 Ruth Peterson. I missed your little
girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in."
"Wendy talked 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, Mrs. 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 MRS. P printed
in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright
crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, 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 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 speak to me
of inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from
a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand-who
taught me the gift of love.
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