> Today is the last day I will check my profile. I appreciate all the kindness shown. May everyone be happy about everything. I deleted my last contest so I wouldn't have to come back. I did for about 3 min.s today. I found several proclaimed friends calling me out of my name. I am 21 years old and this is all too immature for me. If I got in first place someone would comment me a negative comment. Usually they were in 2nd place (if but a moment). What's the deal? To rally for votes? It would save more time to just purchase these items. I thought it was fun when I first started. My mom is very religious. I should of know something was not cool here by her judgement alone. If I wanted to I could of copy and pasted all the stuff that was written me. It would of caused a war with many. Si I bid you all farewell. Good luck on your entry's! It is done.
> The SANDPIPER
>
> 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!" 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, 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 shared 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.
>
> Now let's make it a GREAT DAY!!!

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