A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

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.

Shewas 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 belong to others:
a group of unruly
Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and 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 toschool?"

"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 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 isshe?"

"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:
I hope you have a few Kleenex tissues left in that
box. The above is
a true story sent out by Ruth 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 everyday
traumas, can make us lose focus about what is truly
important or
what is only a monetary setback or crisis. This
weekend, be sure to give
your love
ones an extra hugs, and by all means, take a moment
... even if it
is only ten seconds, and stop and smell the roses.

Please use your back arrow to return to previous page....

and thank you for sharing with me this short but true story.

Charlene~ ~ ~