I came across this true story entitled The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson and I need to share it with you.

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 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. 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 gliding down the beach. Goodbye 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.

“Robert,” I answered. “I’m Robert 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 Mr. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I finished stacking my dishwasher. I need a sandpiper, I told myself, gathering up my jacket.

The ever-changing joy of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.

“Hello Mr. 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 suggested sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.”

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 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 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 to her and shouted; “Because my mother died!” then 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 myself.

“When she died?”

“Of course it hurt,” I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself and 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 that I missed her, I went up to the cottage and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey colored hair opened the door.

“Hello. I’m Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered whre 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, realizing that I meant what I had just said.

“Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn’t tell you.”

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.

Wendy’s mother carried on. “She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no. She seemed so much better here and had lots 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 search for it?”

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 hues of a yellow beach, a blue sea and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed;


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 so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I muttered over and over and we wept together.

The precious picture is framed now and hangs in my study. It speaks to me of harmony, courage and undemanding love … a gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand, who taught me the gift of love.



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