A few years ago, one of my former student ward bishops asked me to put together a ward reunion. I was more than happy to oblige; those had been good times. So I put together a crack squad of U32 veterans, gathered a few hundred e-mail addresses, and made it happen.
The night of the event, I found myself sitting on one of those trademark folding cultural hall chairs at one of those trademark folding cultural hall tables, catching up with one of several friends who had long ago left the singles ward scene to get married and start having kids.
At one point in the conversation, my good friend, in all seriousness, asked if I didn't just weep openly because I was still single after all these years. I told him I didn't, and the conversation shifted to the fact that I had spearheaded the effort to coordinate the evening's event (an effort I was second-guessing at the time). At that precise moment, my friend labeled me with one of the most adept nicknames I've ever been given, and probably the one I resent the most:
"Man," he said, "You're THE GLUE."
Most of the time.
Not all the time, though. Sometimes you have friends who make an effort to keep ties, and sometimes, those friends get married to wives who foster that effort. Today, the day after Mother's Day, I'd like to thank those wives.
Sometimes being The Glue is a pain in The Gluteus Maximus. It's nice to get some help from time to time.