Have
you ever felt the weight of the world on your shoulders - like your
problems were worse than everyone else’s? Where you just want to be
left alone to drown in your misery and you want to shut everyone out of
your life? The story I am about to share with you today is a true story,
written by a man by the name of Robert Peterson. It contains a reminder
to all of us that in the hustle and bustle of life our everyday traumas
can make us lose focus on what is truly important. Many of our problems
are only momentary setbacks and we should always be receptive to the
love of others around us who are reaching out to help us get over our
crisis while at the same time seeking help with theirs. When compared to
others, our problems are usually nothing. And all too often, we find out
afterwards that we could have done so much more if only we would have
known. Enjoy the story.
“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. 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. Just then a sandpiper glided by.
“That’s a joy,” the child said. “It’s a what?” I asked.
“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 I 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. “Robert Peterson.”
“Mine’s
Wendy...I’m six.” “Hi Wendy.”
“You’re
funny,” she giggled. 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: 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 dishwasher. “I need a
sandpiper,” I thought 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,
Mr. P.,” she said. “Do you want to play?”
“No,
I just want to walk” I said with a twinge of annoyance in my voice.
“Ok,
then let’s just walk,” she said and began to walk alongside me.
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
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 came up to 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!” 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, go away!”
“Did
it hurt?” she inquired. “Did what hurt?” I was exasperated with
her and with myself. “When she died?.” she asked. “Of course it
hurt!” I snapped, wrapped up in myself as 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 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.” Dumb-struck, 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 I could only find it.
Could you wait for 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 how 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 every 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.”
Let
this story be a reminder to you that in this complicated life we live,
we should never lose focus of what is really important. Give your loved
ones an extra hug today. Spend a few extra minutes listening to your
children, or just sitting with them, watching them play. Take a moment
to stop and smell the roses before it is too late.
Have
a good day.