>From: "Pearl Fernane" <pearlyshellz@...>
>To: "Joy Morris" <joymomgram@...>
>Subject: Fw: The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
>Date: Thu, 17 Jul 2003 18:13:08 -0700
>
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: Ronald Sikorski
>To: flo conley
>Sent: Thursday, July 17, 2003 9:18 AM
>Subject: Fw: The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
>
>
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: mike mattuch
>To: john seper ; tom sharkey ; ray/ann shenko ; ronald sikorski ; bernice
>slaughter ; barbara sullivan ; harriet ternipsede ; Natalia Zavadovych ;
>betty ali ; joanne barczak ; june brown ; thomas burgess ; Donna Jean Davey
>; sherrie lance harrison ; jessica jackson ; william jackson ; mary
>joscelyn ; Gene-Wanda Lash ; Peggy MacKay ; betty mattuch ; bill
>outerbridge ; James Pirovano
>Sent: Thursday, July 17, 2003 3:23 AM
>Subject: The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
>
>
>
>
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>The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson
>
>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 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." "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."
>
>After a few days 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, 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 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 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 so 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,
>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.
>
>NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
>Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the
>incident changed his life forever. 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, to stop
> and smell the roses. This comes from someone's
>heart,
> and is shared with many and now I share it with you.
>
>
> May God Bless everyone that receives this!
> 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?
>
>I thought this was worth sending on.
>
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