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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 



"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."  

The next few days consisted 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:   




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 

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 read by many   

and now I share it with you..  

May God Bless everyone who receives this!  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. 

David Mar 15 '16 · Rate: 5 · Tags: child, love, life, death, caring

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