Today I was teaching an art class of about 22 people when a gentleman came and handed
me a true story that he thought would touch my heart in an important way. The rest of the class asked me to read it out, and I did. This was so profound that I felt I need to share this with people I care about. Words fail me to say anything further, but please take the time to read this story. It may just teach you something as it did me. I would like to publicly thank Mr Ray Whiting for giving me this Gift.
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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 3 or 4 miles whenever the world seems 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 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.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"That'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 mutterd to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on.
My life seemed so out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson"
"Mine's Wendy and 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 follwed me as she called, "Come again, Mr P, we'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others. The sun was shining as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a Sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-waiting balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to capture the serenity that I so badly needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello Mr P, do you want to play?" she said.
"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 fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there," she said as she pointed to 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, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling a little better I agreed with her and smiled.
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 that she keep her child at home!
"Look, if you don't mind I'd rather be alone today." I said to Wendy as she caught up to me. I was cross with her.
She seemed unusually pale and out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my Mother died today!" and thought, why am I telling this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I answered. "And yesterday and the day before and oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she asked.
"Of course it hurt!!!!!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that when I went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself that I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked on the door. A drawn looking woman 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 am 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, Mr 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 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 woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "Mr.P" printed in bold, childish letters
Inside was a drawing with crayola bright 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 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 again, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is now framed and hangs in my study. Six words, one for each year of her life that speak to me of harmony, courage and love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes who taught me the gift of love.
"The price of not loving another human being, is to love oneself less"
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My best wishes to all who read this and love to those who know I love them.
Ana