Hi everyone, Thought you might enjoy this. Trisha in New Zealand > > This one is very beautiful ..... and heartbreaking too ... > > worth reading ...... > > > > A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy. > > > > 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 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 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 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 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 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, and stop and > > smell the roses before it's too late. > > > > -- Trisha Gutschlag SUMATRA PAPILLONS [EMAIL PROTECTED] _______________________________________________________________ Sponsored by Beakers Graphic Designs http://www.probe.net/~beakers/ecsp.htm The Xstitch Home page at http://www.probe.net/~beakers/xshome.htm Mary Joseph - XStitch List Moderator - [EMAIL PROTECTED] Monica Sudds - XStitch List Administrator - [EMAIL PROTECTED] =============================================================== To unsubscribe TO: [EMAIL PROTECTED] Message: unsubscribe XStitch
