A Sandpiper to Bring You Joy
Several years ago, a neighbor related to me an experience that
happened to her one winter on a beach in Washington State. The
incident stuck in my mind and I took note of what she said. Later,
at a writers' conference, the conversation came back to me and I
felt I had to set it down. Here is her story, as haunting to me
now as when I first heard it:
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 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.
"It's 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 depressed; 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 Windy" It sounded like Windy. "And I'm six."
"Hi, Windy."
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, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy
day." The days and weeks that followed belonged to others;
a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the
dishwater. "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.
"Hello, Mrs. 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 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. 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, Windy
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 even to greet Windy. 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'd rather be alone today." She
seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned on 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 that and - oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?"
"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 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.
"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 delightful 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 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
lovely young woman. 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:
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy
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.
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.
By Mary Sherman Hilbert |
