Oldmails

The Sandpiper - by Robert Peterson

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 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 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." 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 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 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.

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 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 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, to
stop and smell the
roses.

This comes from someone's heart, and is shared with
many and now I share
it with you.

I Wish For You, A Sandpiper!!!