. . . we need to take
time to enjoy living, life,
and each other.
The price of hating others
is loving oneself less.
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.
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."
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 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.
"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.
"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.
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."
If we might have a second chance
to live the days once more,
and rectify mistakes we've made
to even up the score.
If we might have a second chance
to use our knowledge gained,
perhaps we might become at
least as fine as God ordained.
But we can't retrace our steps,
however stands the score.
Tomorrow brings another chance
for us to try once more. 2
Break free from your conditioning (the “rules”);
forgive quickly; love truly; laugh uncontrollably;
never regret anything that made you smile –
and always watch your parting words.
This comes from someone's heart,
and now I share it with you . . .
May God Bless you.
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?
(pssst - - they don't teach us –
we choose to learn from them)
I have never had a bad day when I didn't choose to
I wish for you, a sandpiper.
 -The Sandpiper ~Mary Sherman Hilbert.
 -Another Chance ~Author Unknown
|MorningStar Inspirations from
Dawn Cove Abbey
Roadside Assistance For Your Journey Through Life
- Dedicated to helping people return (and maintain) sanity and decency to life -
From the eBook: "One! The Journey hOMe", by Klaas Tuinman MA, © 2007-2017
Questions and comments welcomed.
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."
We have eyes
She seemed unusually pale and out of breath. We look
But do we see?
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted,
"Because my mother died!"
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?"
"Did what hurt?"
I was exasperated with her, with myself.
We have ears
"When she died" We hear
But do we listen?
"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 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,
I remembered my last words to her.
and a heart that had almost forgotten to love
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. 1
The Sandpiper story was written by Mary Sherman Hilbert. A version of it was published in Reader's Digest
in 1980. It was not written by Robert or Ruth Peterson (Robert Peterson is a character in this story only).
The Reader's Digest article included an explanation from the author that a neighbor of hers had told her of
"an experience" she had while walking on a beach in Washington state. Mary Sherman Hilbert says she
took notes at the time then later recalled the conversation and decided to write about it. What percentage
of the story is real and what percentage is creative fiction is not clear – it has become a widely-forwarded
piece of online culture.