She's really sick... they say she may not make it through the week. My heart aches. The Dr's say that all they can do now is make her comfortable I can't help but wonder how. She is so little, so frail, so sick, and so far gone. She has Alzheimer's... she has been through so much. I remember when it started. She would forget little things, like where the keys were. She would sit for hours just staring out the kitchen window. I can still remember the way the sun beams would dance on her red hair. I was maybe 4 when it all started. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with her, and I would just watch her. I never interrupted, she always looked so content. As time went on I remember her contentness turned and she would just sit and cry... still, I never interrupted, I just watched. I knew that it was only a matter of seconds before she stopped crying. We would sit and watch Soap Operas every afternoon, I enjoyed that time together. I remember when the family started to worry my dad said, "She can't separate whats on TV from reality." That scared me. That's when my heart first felt pain. I started to interrupted her quite time, and started to beg her to sit in the living room with me, I was 6 and trying my hardest to make things better.
I remember when her sister Aunt Rena would come up from Alamosa to visit, they would stay up for hours speaking Spanish and laughing. The visits became fewer when her sister started to have the same symptoms.
When I was 10 Grandma started getting worse. She would cry a lot more, when we would walk in the house she say "How did you find me?" She thought she was in Alamosa. To me it was like watching her grow backwards. She would tell us that her mom and dad came to visit. She was always looking for the 'baby'. She forgot so much. She would ask at least 8 times who you were. It hurt so bad. I would always get mad at her because I just told her, "Grandma, I'm Monique." I wouldn't cry until I was in the other room. She always used to make us promise that we wouldn't put her in home, so we had a nurse move in. That didn't last long. She needed more care than a nurse could offer.
Christmas 1997 Grandma was with us, she stayed at our house for a week. After the new year they said she was going to go back home. I was 15, I should have known better. They moved her into a nursing home, they said they could care for her better there. That was 8 years ago. Her condition continued to deteriorate. Her speach became so slurred it was nothing more than a mumble. She eventually quit asking to go home. She always cried. I hated seeing her in there, it hurt so bad to watch her and see her so miserable. But I knew that we couldn't care for her the way they do. I would go visit her, not as often as I should. Once or twice a month, and on her birthday and holidays. For her 90th birthday we brought Aunt Rena up. They sat there right next to each other and every few minutes they would realize that they were together. They would get so excited and mumble and then hug. It was like they were speaking the same language, and no one else understood.
Christmas 2005, she was sleeping when we went in. I knelt down beside her bed and was holding her hand. She opened one eye and smiled. "Merry Christmas" she said as clear as day. I started crying. "I love you Grandma." I couldn't stay any longer. I kissed her hand and left the room.
She just had her 91st birthday on April 12th. I think God is lending her to us for a just a little bit longer. I'm going to miss her, but I know that when she goes it won't be good-bye. It'll be "see you on the other side" I love her so much and I hate to see her hurting. But God will make her whole. I don't cry because I'm sad, I cry because I know its time. It's just hard to let go, right?

The Sandpiper
by Robert Peterson
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 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. 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 next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTAmeetings, 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!" 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 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 uttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for eachyear 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 sent out 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 traumascan make us lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or crisis.This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means, take a moment... even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.This comes from someone's heart, and is read by many and now I share it with you...
May God Bless everyone who receives this! There are NO coincidences!Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never brush aside anyone as insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us?
I wish for you, a sandpiper.
"All things work together for good to them that love God." Romans 8:28