The Sandpiper

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach whenever the world begins to close in on me, a distance of three or four miles. She was building a sand castle and looked up, her eyes blue as the sea.

"Hello," she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother talking 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 the sand."

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.

A sandpiper glided by without a care.

"That's a joy," the child said, motioning to the bird.

"It's what?"

"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."

The bird went glissading 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, and I'm six."

"Hi, Wendy."

She giggled. "You're funny," she said.

In spite of my gloom I laughed at her laughing at me. Then I walked on. Her musical giggle followed me. "Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We can have another happy day."

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: work, a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, my 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 never-changing rhythm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity the beach always brings to me. I had forgotten about 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 that innocent young children posses.

"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 the talk of little girls as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left to return home, Wendy said that seeing me had made this 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 even to greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like asking her to 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 on her and shouted, "Because today my mother died!" and thought, 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 that and ... oh, just go away!"

"Did it hurt?"

"Did what hurt!?" I was exasperated with her, and with myself.

"When she died?"

"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself and my own grief. I strode off to be alone.

A month or so after that, I next went back 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 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 sorry if she bothered you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies. She tended to be overly talkative to strangers."

"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"

"Mrs. Peterson. Wendy died last week. She had leukemia."

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

"She loved this beach, that's why we brought her here. So when she wanted to be near here, 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...let me find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"

My eyes filled with tears and 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, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:

A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY

Tears fell from my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten how to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I am 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 inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who showed me how to think of others and taught me the gift of love.

(Author unknown)

I know...it made you think and press towards the realization that tomorrow is not promised.