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 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...
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 belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts,
PTA meetings, and 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 seems
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, and
yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?
"
"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 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 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 it. "Where
is she?"
"Wendy died
last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't
tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"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, 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, 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
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, undemanding
love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color sand---
who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: I hope
you have a few Kleenex tissues in that box. The above is a true story
sent out by Ruth Peterson. 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"