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THE SANDPIPER
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 in the sand.
"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." I replied.
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."
After a few days 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 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 then I 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,
and 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
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 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, 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.
Author; Robert Peterson
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,life, and each other.
The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
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