A Sandpiper To Bring You
Joy
![Sand Piper Photographer unknown](TheSandPiper2.jpg)
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.
“Ruth,” I answered. “I’m Ruth 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, 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 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, 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 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. 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 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, 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, 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 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, 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: The above is a true
story sent out by Ruth Peterson. It serves as a reminder to all of us we
need to take time to enjoy living 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,
and stop and smell the roses before it’s too late
Mary Sherman Hilbert,
(A True Story)
Midi Playing: Ebb Tide
Background and Graphics by: Kitten_kitty1
Site created and maintained by
Kitten_kitty1
Copyright © 2006 All rights reserved
![Home Button](../images/Homebutton.gif)
|