Finding joy...

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach. 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 scurried along the edge of the surf.


"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. I was depressed and 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 magical 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. I need a sandpiper, I thought to myself and gathered up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to capture 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.

Her 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 to 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 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!" Then I 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, just 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.

A month or so later, when I went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself that I missed her, I went to the cottage after my walk and knocked on 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. 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. She left something for you."

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.

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 written by Robert Peterson and serves as a reminder to all of us that we need to take the time to enjoy living and life and each other.

I wish you, a sandpiper...

Barb:-)