12/27/2025
Each year, during this same quiet week at our beach house, I do what I always do: I walk room to room and take stock of what time and love have left behind. The furniture bears the soft sag of too many happy evenings, lamps lean at imperfect angles, carpets tell stories in stubborn stains, and every corner seems to whisper a reminder of repairs waiting to be made. The list feels endless—what must be fixed, replaced, upgraded—and for a moment I wonder, not for the first time, if it is all worth it.
Then morning arrives. I sit with a cup of coffee while the house is still, before the day finds its voice. The only sound is the steady rhythm of waves breaking against the shore, a familiar and faithful music. I open the guest journal, its pages worn thin from hands that came here seeking rest, laughter, healing, and escape. Some entries are brief, others generous with their words. This year, one family even tucked a photograph between the pages—smiling faces captured on the steps leading down to the beach, a moment of joy preserved and shared.
As I read, I come upon a message dated July 20, 2025 (below). The words are simple, sincere, and full of gratitude. In that instant, the worn furniture fades, the broken lamps lose their urgency, and the stained carpet no longer feels like damage at all, but evidence of life well lived within these walls. I am reminded that this house has given families a place to gather, to breathe, to reconnect—to make memories they will carry long after the sand has been shaken from their shoes.
And there, with the ocean murmuring its approval just outside the window, the question answers itself. Yes. It is worth it.
