To the wanderers and the weary,

to those who crossed storms with nothing but a stubborn heart

and to the quiet who stayed behind and kept the fire lit.

Here is to the laughter that lingers in old rooms,

to the empty chairs that still feel warm,

to the friends we lost on the way

and the strangers who will one day matter.

Let us not brood over roads untaken

or the ghosts that echo behind our steps.

What matters is the courage to rise each morning

with whatever light we still possess

and find our way with the pieces that remain.

So drink to the promises we kept by accident

and the ones we broke with grace.

Drink to the dreams that startled us awake

and the stories we only half remember.

And drink to the fortunate fall that brought us here,

to this table, in this hour, with these people.

Us.

And when the night thins

and the last glass is drained,

remember this truth if nothing else:

Beauty was never in perfection

but in the foolhardy, holy act of gathering.

Communion.

And I say with a full heart and flawed hands

that this was good.

That this was worth the day.