A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

Favorite Stories: A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy

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written by Mary Sherman Hilbert

1980 Reader's Digest

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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 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 blue as the sea.

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"Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.

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"I'm building," she said.

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"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.

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"Oh I don't know, I just like the feel of the sand."

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That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.

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"That's a joy," the child said.

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"It's what?"

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"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."

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The bird went on down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

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"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.

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"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."

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"Mine's Wendy,... and I'm six."

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"Hi, Wendy."

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She giggled. "You're funny," she said.

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In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on.

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Her musical giggle followed me. "Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."

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The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly BoyScouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.

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"I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The never-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.

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"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"

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"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

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"I don't know, you say."

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"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.

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The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."

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"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.

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"Where do you live?" I asked.

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"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.

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"Where do you go to school?"

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"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."

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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.

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Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood even to greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.

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"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me,"I'd rather be alone today."

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She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

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"Why?" she asked.

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I turned on her and shouted, "Because my mother died!"-and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?

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"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."

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"Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and-oh, go away!"

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"Did it hurt?"

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"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.

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"When she died?"

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"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.

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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-colored hair opened the door.

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"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."

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"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."

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"Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"

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"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."

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Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.

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"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?"

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I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman.

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She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:

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A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY

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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 sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.

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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 inner harmony, courage, 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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written by Mary Sherman Hilbert

1980 Reader's Digest

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For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. Anyone who serves Christ in this way is pleasing to God and approved by men. - Romans 14:17-18

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http://www.new-life.net/favrt012.htm

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Snopes.com - The Sandpiper plagiarized by the ghost Robert Peterson

http://www.snopes.com/glurge/sandpiper.asp

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Originally posted 05.07.06 - 11:10pm