A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

Old 05-29-2012, 04:00 PM
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Default A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy


By Ruth Peterson

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.

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.

"Goodbye 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 belonged to others: 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.

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." "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-coloured hair 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 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 realising that I meant what I had just said.

"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.
She had leukaemia. 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 MRS. P printed in bold childish letters.

Inside was a drawing in bright crayon of 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 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 colour of sand -
who taught me the gift of love.

Old 05-29-2012, 06:15 PM
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I sit here with a total loss of words after reading this, thank you for posting this
Old 05-30-2012, 04:30 AM
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A touching story, and a reminder of what's important.
Old 05-30-2012, 05:14 AM
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Thanks for posting.....Where do I turn in my man card??????

Old 05-31-2012, 08:19 AM
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Old 05-31-2012, 08:36 AM
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Originally Posted by CJS View Post
Thanks for posting.....Where do I turn in my man card??????

Where ever that is, I'm second in line...

I can tell you without an ounce of doubt in my mind, that nobody's death or injury ever affected me, even from close relatives... thats the way my brain is wired... for whatever reason my mind rationalize it like they are better and it had to happen so I do not feel bad on those situations....EXCEPT when there's a kid involved!!!! We own a pediatric therapy clinic. Only once, I allowed one therapist to share the story of a patient... I could not stop crying for the rest of that day... during some moment I was able to control it and put my mind away but 5 minutes later would start hopelessly sobing...
From that time on, everybody here knows that no matter what happens I do not want to know what are the patients diagnostics or story behind them... Only thing I need to know is their name, DOB and insurance #. anything after that is too much information.

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