Ray S S
Silver Member
Greetings, Here is a heart touching story I received in an email.
I think many of you will enjoy it as I did. I'll copy it word for word.
It goes as follows....
This story doesn't ask anyone to forward it or take any action other than
to read and enjoy and heed the message. By the way, I wish you a
sandpiper.
The Sandpiper
By Robert Peterson
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
"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," she 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. 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. "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 took my hands out of the dishwasher. 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.
"hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What do 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. Mama says we're on vacation." She chatted
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 seemed 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," 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, 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 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 on the
door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored 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."
Struck dumb, 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 only
I can find it. Could you wait 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
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 uttered 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, 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.
(The following is a note that was at the bottom of the story)
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It
happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his
life forever, 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.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas
can make us lose focus about what is truly important, or what is
only a momentary setback or crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and,
by all means, take a moment... even if it is only ten seconds, to
stop and smell the roses.
This comes from someone's heart, and is read by many and now
I share it with you..
May God Bless everyone who reads this! There are NO coincidences!
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason.
Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they
can teach us?
I wish for you, a sandpiper.
I think many of you will enjoy it as I did. I'll copy it word for word.
It goes as follows....
This story doesn't ask anyone to forward it or take any action other than
to read and enjoy and heed the message. By the way, I wish you a
sandpiper.
The Sandpiper
By Robert Peterson
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
"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," she 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. 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. "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 took my hands out of the dishwasher. 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.
"hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What do 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. Mama says we're on vacation." She chatted
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 seemed 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," 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, 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 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 on the
door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored 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."
Struck dumb, 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 only
I can find it. Could you wait 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
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 uttered 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, 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.
(The following is a note that was at the bottom of the story)
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It
happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his
life forever, 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.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas
can make us lose focus about what is truly important, or what is
only a momentary setback or crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and,
by all means, take a moment... even if it is only ten seconds, to
stop and smell the roses.
This comes from someone's heart, and is read by many and now
I share it with you..
May God Bless everyone who reads this! There are NO coincidences!
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason.
Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they
can teach us?
I wish for you, a sandpiper.
