She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near my home. 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 mood to be bothered by 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. I 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 finished my chores. 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 il I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr P," she said. "Do you want to play?" "What do 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 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 the 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 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 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 com , we couldn't say no. She seemed so mu h better here and had a lot of what she c lied happy days. But the last few weeks she declined rapidly ... " Her voice faltered, 'She left something for you ... if only I ca find it. Could you wait a moment while look?" I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She I handed me a smeared envelope with 'Mr p" printed tn- boldish letters:-Inside was a drawing in bright crayon huesn a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bir . Underneath was carefully printed:
"A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY"
"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 com , we couldn't say no. She seemed so mu h better here and had a lot of what she c lied happy days. But the last few weeks she declined rapidly ... " Her voice faltered, 'She left something for you ... if only I ca find it. Could you wait a moment while look?" I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She I handed me a smeared envelope with 'Mr p" printed tn- boldish letters:-Inside was a drawing in bright crayon huesn a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bir . 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's both hands. ''I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious llittle picture is framed now and hangs in m study. Six wbrds - one for each year of her life – that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from child with sea blue eyes and hair the colour of sand -- who taught me the gift of love.
Note: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It hap ened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever.
