Good morning!
I am currently taking my customary post-Easter retreat, a time of quiet recalibration. Here at the beach, the rhythm of the day is dictated by the steady, percussive pulse of the Atlantic—the kind of deep, ancient roar that makes the clamor of the world feel suddenly very small. The beach is a canvas of pale, sugar-fine sand, ribbed by the retreating tide and scattered with the shimmering debris of the sea.
Each evening, the horizon transforms into a cathedral of light. The sunsets here aren’t merely transitions into night; they are fiery, slow-burning masterpieces of violet, bruised orange, and gold that spill across the water’s surface like molten glass. It is a setting that invites, perhaps even demands, deep reflection. While I’ve been making progress on my latest book, I felt a sudden, sharp compulsion to share a particular insight that I had on my first full day here.
Yesterday, I read an interview in the New York Times with former Senator Ben Sasse. I commend it to you.
Ben has recently received a diagnosis of a very serious cancer and his treatment seems worse than the disease. When the interviewer asked if there was any specific wisdom he would offer given the gravity of his situation, his response was striking in its simplicity and its depth:
“Honor the Sabbath and keep it holy. Man, I wish I’d treated the Lord’s day differently over the course of my life. Dinnertime is precious. Lock up your devices and keep them away from the table and prioritize that time.”
I will leave you to explore the full interview if you feel so inclined, but I found his words particularly arresting. It is surprising, and yet deeply telling, that a man of such immense public achievement—when standing on the threshold of the eternal—doesn’t speak of policy, legacy, or career milestones. Instead, he speaks of the sanctity of time and the intimacy of the dinner table. It echoes the chorus of so many who have stood at that same precipice: a profound regret for the “urgent” things that crowded out the “important” ones.
As I wander along the shoreline, my barefeet sinking into the cool, damp sand, or as I sit in my chair staring out into the vast, indigo infinity of the ocean, I find myself circling back to Sasse’s words. There is a connection between the vastness of the sea and the concept of the Sabbath—both remind us that we are not the ones keeping the world spinning.
Watching the sun dip below the horizon from our porch, I am struck by the realization that the Sabbath isn’t just a rule to be kept, but a gift to be reclaimed. It is an invitation to put down our tools, silence our devices, and acknowledge that our worth is not found in our productivity, but in our presence. Hopefully, I will return home with a renewed commitment to restore the Sabbath to its rightful place—not as a day of restriction, but as a sanctuary in time where the soul can finally catch up with the body.
May you also find a moment today to look away from the screen, toward the horizon, and remember what is truly precious.
Beautifully said, Webb. And your post relit memories of the times Casey and I shared with you and Suzy at beaches, Eastcoast and Westcoast…times of both environmental and friendship beauty!
Tom
Thank you Tom. Boy, I wish you and Casey were here.