A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

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 glided¹ 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 depressed²; 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 giggled⁴. "You're funny," she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle³ 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 Scouts⁵, PTA meetings, and ailing⁶ mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering⁷ up my coat. The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me.

 

The breeze was chilly⁸, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity⁹ 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 annoyance¹⁰.

 

"I don't know, you say."

 

"How about charades¹¹?" I asked sarcastically¹².

 

The tinkling¹³ laughter burst forth¹⁴ 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 pointed¹⁵ 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 chattered¹⁶ 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 exasperated¹⁷ 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 drawn¹⁸ 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 delightful¹⁹ 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 faltered²⁰.

 

"She left something for you...if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"

 

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing²¹ for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared²² 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. Underneath²³ 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.

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