Journey of Hearts 

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?" 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. 

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, Mrs. 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, though, 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. 

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 talked 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 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, 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:
 
 

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.

When I wrote to the author for permission to use the story, the response generated was that from a kindred soul:

"By all means you can use the story -- if it would help just one person it will be worth it."