Home - About Me - Encouragement - Inspiration - My Faith - Salvation

   Back to Inspiration Contents 2 - Links


 Six Year Old Wendy


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 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 greed. 

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
"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 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.

By Robert Peterson


Previous story

Next story


Back to Inspiration Contents 2