And Strangers Gathered
The group I was traveling with arrived at our hotel for our final two nights in Guatemala. As we pulled into the parking lot, it was clear—this could have been the location for a season of White Lotus.
Picture this: you walk through a hotel lobby into an open-air restaurant that overlooks a deck. On the deck is a pool and an infinity hot tub, which is perched above a grassy slope that leads to Lake Atitlán. And what is across the lake? A volcano. I’m from the middle of the United States—it’s not every day I see a volcano.
As we settled in, we kept hearing it: There’s an event tomorrow. The spa would be closed in the afternoon. The restaurant could be full. Something was on the verge of happening.
It didn’t take long to figure it out; they were hosting a wedding.
What a perfect place to say, “I do.”
By the next day, the vibe had shifted. There was a buzz in the air. Details were being tended to. Chairs were being arranged. Guests arrived in waves. The staff moved quickly. It was go-time.
Most of us—travelers, families, couples—were hanging out on the deck when we noticed the ceremony was about to begin. And then came the awkward moment. That shared glance among strangers. A collective, unspoken question: Are we supposed to be here? We weren’t on the guest list. We didn’t even know the couple.
Someone said, “Surely they’ll close the deck. We should leave, right?”
But no one moved.
We stayed. All of us.
We quieted down. We became present. We watched as guests took their seats, heard the music begin to play, and one by one, the wedding party walked down the aisle.
We weren’t dressed for the moment—some in swimsuits, others in street clothes or traditional Guatemalan garments. We were lounging, swimming, and soaking. We spoke English, Spanish, and a mix of European languages.
We were invested—but not invited.
We were strangers.
A wedding is an intimate event. At first, it felt uncomfortable—like we were eavesdropping on something sacred, something too personal to witness without permission. But slowly, that discomfort softened. It turned into something else—something beautiful. Here we were, people from all over the world, witnessing the beginning of a love story. Not ours. Not meant for us. But something worth pausing for. Something worth honoring.
And it got me thinking.
Why does it feel so strange to celebrate with strangers? Why do we need proximity or permission to cheer for others? Why is it easy to scroll past someone’s good news?
What if we didn’t wait to be invited to celebrate someone else’s success?
What if we chose to be joyful on behalf of others—not just our family or friends, but strangers too?
We live in a world that often makes us feel like there’s only so much joy to go around. Like celebrating someone else somehow means there’s less for us. But that’s not how joy works. And it is certainly not how humanity should work.
When we choose to celebrate others, we aren’t giving something away—we’re receiving something. We’re participating in the experience of being human. We’re saying, your story matters, even if I am late to the party.
And here’s the truth: life is richer when we choose to be a witness.
Witnesses to the hard-fought victories. The quiet courage. The milestones. The resilience. The joy. Even when it’s not ours—even when we don’t know the full story—we can still say, I see you. We can still pause long enough to say, I’m so glad that happened for you. We can honor the fact that there is still good in the world.
We don’t always need to understand someone’s journey to honor the fact that they’ve arrived. Sometimes we just need to look beyond ourselves and see the good. It’s there, waiting for us to notice.
So here’s the invitation—what if this week, you looked for a chance to celebrate someone else? Not because you’re expected to, but just because you can. What if you chose to be a witness to good?
Sometimes, the most sacred thing you can do is cheer for someone you don’t even know.
I want to live in a world where strangers choose to gather.