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, 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.