She
was six years old when I first met her on the
beach
near where I live. I drove 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. "Your'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,
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
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 it hurt?"
I
was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When
she died?"
"Ofcourse
it hurt!!!!" I snapped,
misunderstanding,
wrapped up in myself.
I
strode off.
A
month or so after that, when I 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
a
yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath
was carfully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears
welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had
almost
forgotten to love open wide.
I
took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm
so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm 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,
undemanding
love.
A
gift from a child with sea-blue eyes
and
hair the color of sand,
who
taught me the gift of love.
The above is a true
story send 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 everday traumas,
can make us
lose focus about
what is truly important
or what is only
monentary 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.
