The
Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
THIS IS A STORY THAT HAS REALLY STUCK WITH ME... THROUGH TOUGH TIMES... BABY I PASS THE STORY ON TO YOU... A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY!!! LOVE YOU LOTS!!!
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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, 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
uttered 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 ones self 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.
There are NO
coincidences! Everything that happens to us happens for a
reason. Never brush aside
anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they
can teach us?
I wish for you, a SANDPIPER.
God bless you!
