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 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 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. "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.

"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 days and weeks that followed belong 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 ever-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, 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 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, 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 seems 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

NOTE:  The above is a true story sent out by
Robert Peterson. 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 monetary setback or crisis.

This weekend, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means, take a moment, even if it is only ten
seconds, and stop and smell the roses.