A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
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 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 days and weeks that followed belonged to others: 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.
"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.
