To My Brother

My Best Man Speech

A marriage makes of two fractional lives a whole;

It gives to two purposeless lives a work,

And doubles the strength of each to perform it.

It gives to two questioning natures a reason for living,

And something to live for.

It will give a new gladness to the sunshine,

A new fragrance to the flowers, a new beauty to the earth

And a new mystery to life.

—Mark Twain

Above: The best of friends from the very beginning.

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A few short days ago, I was honored to stand beside my brother, John, as his Best Man while he professed his vows to Kathryn before God and the Church.

Words can hardly express what my brother means to me. He is my rock, my refuge, my respite.

What follows is the speech I delivered on his wedding day. It represents my best attempt to put into words a bond that cannot be broken and a relationship that has so enriched my life.

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I want to start by congratulating everyone on scoring an invitation to this wedding. It’s no small feat.

John and Kathryn are, as you know, very particular about who they choose to surround themselves with. As John once told me, “I’m not shy, I just don’t need any more friends.”

With these two, you’re either in or you’re out.

And if you’re here tonight, it’s safe to say you are not only in for this night, but for the rest of their lives.

Now, speaking of life with John, he and I go back 29 wonderful years, but it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

When I first realized I was going to have a sibling, I patted my mom’s swollen belly and, with all the earnestness of a four-year-old, declared:

“Mom, I hope that baby never comes out. And if it does, I hope it’s a dog.”

I never got a dog.

I got something incomparably better: I got John, the brother who told me to keep this speech to a tight five.

So, in that spirit, let me briefly share what makes John truly special.

One of the great philosophers of our time, Shrek, once said that ogres are like onions—they have layers.

John isn’t an ogre (at least not most days)—nor is he a dog—but he does have layers: depth, humor, tenderness, and strength, all rolled into one.

John is one of the most clever and curious people I know, yet as a child, he was adamantly opposed to learning how to read.

He always said, “If Mom and Dad and you can read for me, why would I even bother?”

John is incredibly levelheaded and sensible, but growing up, he couldn’t sleep without his trusty triangular block of wood beside him.

John is the guy who didn’t have a favorite book—but a favorite block of wood.

John was injury-prone too—his knees, his back, you name it.

He broke his arm thanks to an infamous tussle with Uncle Tim, took a knee to the face during a Regis varsity volleyball game, and, courtesy of yours truly, collected 17 stitches from one too many games of floor hockey.

Yet somehow, through all that, he’s still the strongest, sturdiest, most dependable man I know.

John is one of the kindest people you could ever meet, but his nickname when he taught at Regis was “Mean Mr. White.”

John lives in New York City and works a white-collar job from home, but at heart, he’s really a good old blue-collar boy happiest out in the sticks, listening to country music in his truck.

There’s a quote from Thornton Wilder that I love. It’s one of the most beautiful descriptions of brotherhood I have ever read:

“All the world was remote and strange and hostile except one’s brother.”

John is very much like home to me.

Whoever said “in the end, you only have yourself” must not have had a sibling.

I know I will always have my brother, the one person I can rightfully claim forever with. He has always been, and will continue to be, here for me.

To have a sibling is to pause during a solitary nighttime walk, hundreds of miles apart, to stare up at the stars and wonder how much of the person I am today has been shaped by his hand.

To have a sibling is to carry another’s heart alongside your own, knowing your victories and defeats are always shared, no matter the distance or the years.

It is to walk through life sometimes as a student, sometimes as a teacher, but always as a companion.

And to have a sibling like John is to implicitly trust his judgment of people and character—which is why, from the moment I heard about Kathryn, I knew she had to be special.

When I first met Kathryn late one night at New Finney’s under the cheap replica of the Golden Dome, I found earnestness, kindness, excitement, warmth, and joy in the way she looked at John.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I thought then that if Kathryn’s eyes were any indication, she had a beautiful one.

Over time, during beach days at Breezy Point and football games at Notre Dame, her soul’s beauty became undeniable.

And thankfully, it’s also very clear that Kathryn grew up in a house full of boys—because she can handle not only me, but also our extended, male-dominated family.

Because of this, Kathryn doesn’t just survive our family’s unique brand of chaos, she thrives in it.

Together, she and John embark upon a new adventure shaped by their respective hands: marriage.

Now, as the older brother, and someone who has no qualifications to share marital wisdom, I figure I’ll share anyway.

I think that loving someone comes down to just five sentences of mostly one-syllable words.

They are simple—but they have the power to change us into the men and women we genuinely want to be when we say them again and again.

• “I love you.” Say it first, say it often.

• “I’m sorry.” Because inevitably, mistakes happen.

• “I forgive you.” Possibly the toughest, but the most crucial.

• “I need you.” Embrace vulnerability—it’s where strength is found.

• “I’m here.” Through everything life throws your way.

Five sentences. Simple, but never easy.

But if you say them, and live them, you’ll live in love until you both grow old.

And as you grow old, your arteries might harden; your beliefs and routines might too.

But harden not your hearts.

Within marriage, within one another, is a perpetual youth.

And youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty.

Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never ever grows old.

See the beauty. Cherish it. Hold it closely.

This is your story. Yours to write, yours to keep.

As Gandalf wisely advised in The Lord of the Rings,

“Keep it secret. Keep it safe.”

Now, please join me in raising a glass.

To my brother—who I once wished would be a dog—and to Kathryn, who saw all his layers and loved him completely.

You’ve found in each other what we all search for: a home in another person’s heart.

God bless, Go Irish, and here’s to John and Kathryn!

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Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.

If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.

With sincere gratitude,

Tom