But our propensity to solve the world’s problems over a bottle of wine was a comfort to my friend. “See, this is why I don’t have any reason to keep making more friends,” my buddy said. “I’m not going to have better conversations with other people.”

I wondered about the sentiment behind the words: The notion that, at some stage in our lives, we would do better to focus on the depth of a few relationships, rather than seek out new friendships that may or may not pan out. Quality over quantity, let’s say.

The idea is grounded in Dunbar’s number, which essentially states that our brains limit us to social groups no larger than 150 people. This contradicts the notion that, through social media, we can maintain relationships with thousands of people, even if they consist of nothing more than knowing what we’re all eating for breakfast.

Then today, I saw this commercial while absentmindedly watching one of those shows where a lot of people make faces at each other, then go out and work for 20 minutes and make a gazillion dollars.

While I tend to agree with the YouTube comment that puts it eloquently, “I like this commercial but lol @ baby boomers being anything other than the generation that ruined America,” I thought there was a lot of truth in the central idea of the commercial. There isn’t much substance in many of our “networked” relationships. I might know from Facebook that my friend’s dad had just sold 50 pounds of honey in three days as a newly minted apiarist. But I wouldn’t know how much that meant to a man who had bounced from one job to the next, if I hadn’t heard my friend tell it to me over steak and asparagus.

Don’t get me wrong: there is value in getting to know more and different people as we go through life. Earlier in the week, another friend mentioned he was intentionally getting to know people outside of politics, in an attempt to keep from continually revisiting the same topics, stresses and gossip that crop up within such circles. I try to do the same, but in those moments I find myself revisiting friendships forged first in middle school (mainly because I know that I can’t possibly be more awkward than when we first met). Those are wells I can draw from every now and then, because we drilled them a long time ago. They are deep, even if the water might taste a little musty (it’s the nostalgia).

I just wonder if we might be a little better off if we stopped making so many “friends,” and instead focused on making a few of those friendships better. It might not lead to as many party invitations, but we also wouldn’t have to worry about making as many excuses.

Photo courtesy of The Photography Collection

My brother married his longtime love on Saturday, and I had the privilege of serving as his best man. Below is the toast I gave at the reception.

Even though I am Micah’s older brother, I can’t say that I have always understood him. When he was a toddler, for instance, I didn’t understand why Micah was so fascinated by the contents of his diaper – and I especially didn’t understand why he felt the need to share them with the rest of us. Let’s just say Micah showed his artistic talents at an early age by proving that he could work in any medium. His art, as they say, was truly organic.

As we were growing up, I didn’t understand Micah’s curiosity. Whether it was getting his head stuck in the stairwell, dining room chairs and just about anything else; stuffing holly berries up his nose; enjoying the culinary delights of wild mushrooms from our backyard; or trying to see just how far his fingers could get sucked into the elevator doors at Disney World, Micah never stopped exploring the limits of his own humanity. Unfortunately, often those limits had to be explained to him by a medical professional.

As we got a little older, I didn’t understand how my little brother suddenly became someone I liked to be around. We played outside for hours, talked about sports and superheroes, and rode our bikes throughout the neighborhood. I didn’t understand how he could draw the X-Men just like they were in the comic books, while mine always had arms that were 10 times as big as their heads. I found myself wanting to be Micah’s friend, not his superior. I started to understand what it meant to be an older brother, and how the unique relationship between us couldn’t be duplicated with anyone else.

By the time I went to college and Micah was in high school, I didn’t understand why Micah studied all the time. He literally rewrote his U.S. History textbook – I know, because I saw it. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t give himself a moment’s rest as he pursued college scholarships, developed multiple art portfolios, practiced piano and studied the Bible. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just take a break. What I didn’t understand was that Micah was determined to do the best he possibly could in every endeavor, and that the little details that most of us overlook truly mattered to him.

When I graduated college, Micah and I went on a weeklong trip to Southern California. We visited Los Angeles, San Diego and even Tijuana, where we had to make friends with the Mexican police just so we could get back into the country at no extra charge. It was on that trip that I began to understand who my brother really was – and who I was as his older brother. Many times I would get frustrated at Micah for what I thought were his faults, when really he was just focused on the joy of the experience, not the logistics. It’s why Micah was such a great RA at Belmont. Not many people can say they kept on fighting in a Mexican wrestling, or lucha libre, event after breaking their foot on a body slam. Micah was just focused on the joy of the experience for himself and the other guys in his dorm. Later, of course, he focused on how to get across campus on crutches.

But that’s how we get to Lindsay. From almost the moment they met, Lindsay understood Micah. She understood that his creative drive and his relentless curiosity were signs of a man who would make her laugh and would encourage her to explore alongside him. She understood that Micah’s attention to detail meant that she would never want for attention from him, because he would always work to make her the happiest woman in the world. And most important, she understood Micah for who he was and who he is. She loves him as a whole person, not a project.

So even if I never understood some things about Micah – like why my parents allowed him to be taller than me – I certainly understand now why Micah and Lindsay are meant to be together. They are a beautiful, loving and passionate couple, and I wish them the best for the rest of their days.

To Micah and Lindsay, cheers.

This weekend I attended a couple of events that involved separation. Both of them were inherently good in the sense that they celebrated unity and service and the chance to enjoy the company of others. They were difficult, however, in that both events celebrated service of the under-served, and yet didn’t include the very people they were serving.

“When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” — Luke 14:13-14

Sunday in church we talked about one of those times where Jesus tells rich jerks that they’re going to Hell if they keep being rich jerks. Jesus was upfront about the consequences for ignoring the oppressed, which would sound awesome if it didn’t also apply to me. Instead, I am left wondering if I am going to the wrong banquets and whether or not the hors d’oeuvres are filled with damnation.

That would also not make a great mission statement: “I attend parties that serve hors d’oeuvres of damnation.”

I get into a lot of discussions these days about empowerment and social programs and personal pride and the public dole, and I understand that every act of service costs the one doing the serving. But isn’t that how the whole thing is designed? Isn’t sacrifice supposed to make us feel, in some infinitesimally small way, the suffering of the ones whom we serve? I’m not sure we would trust Jesus if He said, “Come follow me, and I will make you fishers of men when it is most convenient for you, without any personal hardship or risk of failure.” (After all, we do that all the time today, and it always turns out that our faux-Jesus is embezzling money and sleeping with his secretary.)

I’m not saying that I am living the life Christ calls me to live. I am not, and it is evident in my pettiness, my hateful words, my distrust of my neighbor. My fruits are most often rotten, and only by grace am I spared the threshing floor. My willingness to love sacrificially is too often smothered by the cynicism that wraps itself into a cocoon around me. It shields me from the omnipresent injustice against my neighbors. The cocoon is smothering me, yet I do not move.

I am at the wrong party, eating the wrong foods and serving the wrong guests while the man outside the gates sits. He is waiting for a later banquet. I need to ask him for an invitation.

I found this note today at my neighborhood Goodwill, lying face down on a desk. They say it takes a village to raise a child. Somewhere along the way, we failed Juan — and we really failed Taylor. Let’s break this down.

Dear Taylor

First of all, let me point out that this futuresex/lovesounds note is written on GIRL SCOUTS STATIONERY, which is the equivalent of Juan giving the double-barreled salute to New Feminism. This may look like a love letter, but it’s not. It’s a statement. A statement about doing sexes.

(Also, Juan: Use a comma for a salutation. It’s just hanging out there.)

I love you so much

Whoa, whoa, whoa. This is a pretty bold statement to make in a Goodwill store. I know this because I told Lindsey I loved her at a hockey game and she definitely rolled her eyes at me. Either Juan is really in love, or he’s just looking for attention. Leaving such notes on $10 Goodwill desks makes me think the latter.

that I want to k(heart-dotted-i)$s you

This is where things get scary. The heart-dotted-i might show that Juan is also a little interested in Rico, but let’s assume he is just really passionate. So passionate, in fact, that he almost writes “Kill” instead of “KISS”:

WTF, Juan?!? Does anybody know where Taylor is at this point? Anyone? The only other assumption we can make is that Ke$ha has now convinced our children that all S’s should be written as dollar signs, and quite frankly, I don’t know if that’s better or worse than a veiled murder threat from a six-year-old.

and do sexes with you

Well, no room for interpretation there. Juan isn’t going to try to be the new Beta man, relying on a wry sense of humor and a false sense of equality to mask his poor decision-making skills and willful deferrals to strong, Type-A feministas. No, Juan is making it very clear to you, Taylor. He wants to do sexes. With you. By Juan.

So what’s it going to be, Taylor? Are you going to get with a guy who knows what he wants and doesn’t care if half of Berry Hill and Woodbine knows about it? Or are you going to keep hanging out with owl-blobs and kids who can’t find their way out of a pop-up tent?

We need to find out the answer. I’m pretty sure my willingness to have kids depends on it.

I am genuinely 100 percent in love.

I can say this at a time as several couples I know struggle through the darkest points in their marriages. Some want divorces, some want peace, and some just want something else. I remember wondering recently amid a spate of weddings when the seasons would change, but I must admit that I didn’t see it coming this quickly. The destruction is a little frightening, sure, but it mostly just saddens me.

When my wife is reduced to Gatorade and chicken broth, I see a beautiful woman who makes me joyous. I wish for the others to feel it, too.

This week I was invited to a celebration of Mexican Independence Day, which is Sept. 16 but is celebrated the night before. (This year marks the 200th year of Mexican independence, as well as the 100th anniversary of the Mexican Revolution.) It was only the third Dia de Independencia event I have been invited to this week, leading me to joke tonight that I’ll end up celebrating México’s independence more than the United States’.

But even if I were not going to a week-long fiesta, I would still celebrate the holiday. That’s because September 2005 marked the first time I traveled to México (or any other country, for that matter). Some of my first international memories were in Zócalo, looking at the massive displays stretching across government buildings and staring up at the largest bandera I have ever seen. That night, my study-abroad group returned to the square and watched as people danced, sang and crowded against each other. I had never seen so much humanity in one place.

By the time Sept. 15 rolled around, we had already traveled to our host city of Morelia, named for one of the leaders of the struggle for Mexican independence. My host family invited me to a celebration at their church, and before I knew it my host mother was introducing me to one of her nieces, who then introduced me to a half-dozen of her friends. By the end of the night, we found ourselves in the historic square, watching fireworks and hearing el grito that all Mexicans yell not from their lungs, but their souls.

That Dia de Independencia marked the beginning of a very new, very different course for me. That night, I made friends that became some of the closest people in my life. I hungrily researched the history of a country so often misrepresented and misunderstood here. I fell in love with the language, the culture and the people on a journey that eventually led me to my wife. Along the way, I attended weddings and funerals, climbed mountains, slept in bus stations, hiked through butterfly sanctuaries and rescued sea turtles. I will always remember the night that I looked up at the sky and was genuinely astonished to see that we do indeed live under the same moon, the same stars. The concept of “foreignness” was shattered for me that night.

I started this journey five years ago, with a recognition of Mexican independence. It is worthy of celebration.