Welcoming 2026, A Hat, And Montana Driveway

Hey Beloved,

I have this hat.

It's basically my daily driver. It is rather faded and well traveled at this point. It was from the 2024 Welcome Conference and the word Welcome is stitched across the front in bright yellow.

For reasons I still don't fully understand, it gets more comments than any piece of clothing I've ever owned. Coffee shops. Airports. Grocery store lines. Someone always says something.

This past Sunday at church, while wearing the hat, a friend leaned over during the greeting time and said, "I really appreciate the way you greet me. The way you welcome me."

He hadn't noticed the hat at all.

I've been thinking about that all week. Because the word welcome can catch attention. But the posture of welcome is what people actually feel.

As 2025 comes to a close and 2026 stands at the door, I keep coming back to a simple question:

How do we welcome?

The word welcome comes from Old English. Wilcuma. Two ideas held together.

Wil. Desire. Pleasure. Willingness.
Cuma. Guest. One who arrives.

At its root, welcome means you are desired here.

Not tolerated.
Not managed.
Not processed.

Desired.

That meaning changes everything, especially when we realize that welcome isn't a single moment. It shows up again and again, whether we're intentional about it or not.

Every relationship begins somewhere.

A post someone scrolls past.
A job description half read.
A website visit late at night.
A referral shared quietly.

This is a welcome. Often unintentional. Often overlooked. But never neutral.

The first impression answers a quiet question before anyone ever reaches out: What would it feel like to be on the other side of this?

Clarity is welcome.
Honesty is welcome.
Tone is welcome.

Marketing, at its best, is hospitality. It's how we welcome people before they ever arrive. And it sets expectations that linger longer than we think.

Then comes the arrival.

Every year I make the trek to Refuge Foundation in Fort Smith, Montana. And every year, the welcome undoes me.

After a long day of travel, followed by a long drive from Billings, you turn onto a long driveway. And as you do, you begin to see something moving far ahead.

At first it looks like a crowd of people.
Then you realize they're moving.
And as you get closer, it looks more like dancing.

And then you begin hear to the noise.

Cheers.
Hooting.
Yeehaws.

A group of people dancing and shouting. Their bodies turned outward, faces fixed on the road. Their celebration clearly meant for whoever is arriving.

And in that moment, you realize something: This is for you.

You are not just allowed here. You are celebrated here. It may be the loudest “We’ve been expecting you.” I have ever experienced.

I remember the first time I pulled up and felt completely undone by it. Not because it was extravagant, but because it was intentional. Someone had decided that arrival mattered enough to make it memorable.

That's the power of the arrival moment. It sets the tone. It tells a story people carry long after the moment passes.

But here's what I'm learning: the most important welcome is the one that happens after the excitement fades.

The ordinary Monday.
The routine check-in.
The seventh meeting.
The unnoticed moment.

This is where cultures are actually formed. Not in the kickoff, but in the follow-through.

Do people still feel desired when nothing new is happening? Or do they feel like a function, a number, a task to be completed?

Hospitality is rarely lost in big moments. It's lost in repetition without intention.

How we welcome shapes everything that follows.

It builds trust. It fuels loyalty. It determines referrals. It strengthens or weakens every relationship.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus tells his followers they are salt—something that adds flavor and preserves. Welcome works the same way. It makes work memorable instead of mechanical. And it keeps things from spoiling over the long haul.

In a world optimized for speed and efficiency, welcome slows things just enough to make them human again.

As I head into 2026, it has me asking questions I don't always want to answer.

How do I welcome my kids as they come down the stairs each morning? Is it with celebration? Or with my stress and anxiety about the busy day ahead?

How do I welcome the interruption? The unplanned conversation? The person who needs something when I'm already running late?

As we step into a new year, maybe the invitation is simpler than we think.

Pay attention to how you welcome.

The first impression.
The arrival moment.
And the ordinary day that follows.

Not louder.
Not more extravagant.

Just more intentional.

Will Guidara says hospitality is the creative and intentional pursuit of relationships.

What if we welcomed 2026 that way? With creativity that sees the ordinary differently. With intention that treats each arrival—each morning, each interruption—as something worth designing for.

Welcome sets the tone for every relationship that follows. It's why I call this Ministry of Welcome. Not because I've figured it out, but because I'm learning that welcome is worth paying attention to. Worth practicing. Worth treating as something sacred.

Here's to 2026. May we welcome it—and everyone in it—well.

With gratitude
Nathan
🧂🧂🧂

P.S. I believe 2026 is the year of hospitality. Not as a buzzword, but as a practice. A posture. A way to serve better and stand out in a crowded market.

Early in 2026, I'm launching another Hospitality OS masterclass—but this time with something new. A tool that makes hospitality actionable. Daily. Practical. Not just philosophy.

If you want in early, reply with WELCOME and I'll make sure you're first to know when it opens.