Have you ever felt the weight of the world on your shoulders - like your problems were worse than everyone else’s? Where you just want to be left alone to drown in your misery and you want to shut everyone out of your life? The story I am about to share with you today is a true story, written by a man by the name of Robert Peterson. It contains a reminder to all of us that in the hustle and bustle of life our everyday traumas can make us lose focus on what is truly important. Many of our problems are only momentary setbacks and we should always be receptive to the love of others around us who are reaching out to help us get over our crisis while at the same time seeking help with theirs. When compared to others, our problems are usually nothing. And all too often, we find out afterwards that we could have done so much more if only we would have known.  Enjoy the story.

“She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach 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. Just then a sandpiper glided by. “That’s a joy,” the child said. “It’s a what?” I asked.

“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 I 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. “Robert Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy...I’m six.” “Hi Wendy.”

“You’re funny,” she giggled. 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 and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwasher. “I need a sandpiper,” I thought 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?”

“No, I just want to walk” I said with a twinge of annoyance in my voice.

“Ok, then let’s just walk,” she said and began to walk alongside me.

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 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 the 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 came up to 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!” I 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 and with myself. “When she died?.” she asked. “Of course it hurt!” I snapped, wrapped up in myself as 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-coloured 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.” Dumb-struck, 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 I could only find it. Could you wait for 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 how 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 every 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 colour of sand, who taught me the gift of love.”

Let this story be a reminder to you that in this complicated life we live, we should never lose focus of what is really important. Give your loved ones an extra hug today. Spend a few extra minutes listening to your children, or just sitting with them, watching them play. Take a moment to stop and smell the roses before it is too late.