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 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.
"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.
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."
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.
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, and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"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.
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 talked 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 is she?" "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.
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.
Story by, Ruth Peterson
I feel so very privileged to have Ms. Peterson email me
and thank me for telling her story so well.
Here are some Sandpipers for your JOY! I hope they bring
as much
fullfillment to your life as they did Wendys.
I also hope from this story you
take a look at how
you treat others and how you look at life. While your
own
life may not be perfect or what you had hoped,
you can usually make
the changes you need to, in order
to make it better, Wendy couldn't.
But
she did the best she knew how,
at that is really all any of us can
do.
Here is a Sandpiper
for Donnie,
Thank you for sharing your joy my husband and
friend.
Sharon
"Don't be afraid your life will end,
be
afraid it will never begin."
Grace Hansen
© 1997-2005 
sharon@sharonrn.com
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