Things are never as they seem.

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> >> Get out the Kleenex before you read this one.....True Story...
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
> >> 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.
> >>
> >>  "Ruth," I answered.  "I'm Ruth 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, Mrs. 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, and 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 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 Ruth Peterson.  I missed your little girl
> today
> >> and wondered where she was."
> >>
> >>  "Oh yes, Mrs. 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, Mrs. 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
> >> altered.  "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
> MRS.
> >> 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:
> >>  I hope you have a few Kleenex tissues left in that box.  The above
> is
> >> a true story sent out by Ruth 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.
> 
> 
This may have been posted before.... 



--
Kirk Moore
CDG analyst II
Boeing Commercial Airplane
Renton, WA
425-965-7731

"Black holes are created when God divides by zero"