Originally posted on Substack on Sept. 11, 2026

I remember that morning like it happened yesterday. Such a trite phrase, but true. It’s forever seared into my memory.

The skies in Knoxville, Tenn., much like New York City, shone strikingly clear and blue and the atmosphere held a delightful early tease of fall. The type of morning I would typically describe as perfect. Mom had opened the windows to allow the slightly crisp morning air to flow inside. As a homeschooled freshman, I had already started my schoolwork for the day. I sat on the couch in front of the living room windows, working on my Bible lesson, savoring the cool air drifting in around me. A little after 9 a.m., Mom rushed down the stairs, calling for us to turn on the TV. The World Trade Center’s second tower had just been hit. I think my aunt had called to let her know.

No other schoolwork happened that day. We learned in real time, sitting in front of the TV, watching history unfold tragically. I watched The Today Show as NBC’s Pentagon correspondent Jim Miklaszewski reported feeling a shaking like an explosion, then broke the news that the Pentagon had been hit and he was being evacuated. Later, we learned Flight 93 had crashed into a field in Shanksville, Pa. At that point, I think we were all thinking, “What is next?!” Then a short time later, we watched in horror as the unthinkable happened and the WTC towers began to collapse.

My church called a prayer meeting and we gathered that evening with many others to pray for our nation, for those who were grieving loved ones, and for those who might still be trapped in debris, in need of rescue. We watched President George W. Bush address the nation on national TV.

My understanding of terrorism prior to 9/11 at best was a vague concept of tragic, horrible things that happened in other places in the world. In the first few years after the attack, I would say that my generation lost its innocence that day. And while that may be true, now, as an adult, I realize pretty much everyone did to some extent. The closest thing we probably had to 9/11 in modern history prior to that day was the December 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor that drew the United States into World War II. Thousands of men and women went to work or boarded an airplane that September day–and never came home.

Over the days and weeks to come, we learned of the countless acts of bravery and the heart wrenching stories of loss. The heroism of the passengers on Flight 93, who, when they realized what was going on, decided they weren’t going down without a fight–and an attempt to thwart the hijackers’ plans.

The interviews that had my usually dry-eyed teenage self sniffing back sobs. I still remember Katie Couric speaking with a man who had been sleeping when his wife called to tell him good-bye. She knew she wasn’t coming home. He slept through the call. He sobbed out his regret at not answering the phone, talking about how he had replayed her voice mail over and over again, cherishing the sound of her voice, regret cutting through him like a knife each time.

I think of the hundreds of firefighters who made trip after trip up dozens of flights of stairs, trying to help as many people as they could escape. Many went back in, even as the building began to tremble, desperately trying to help even one more person make it home. The first responders and even countless volunteers who dug through the rubble for weeks, first searching for survivors, then looking for any remains or special items to help bring closure to grieving families. Hundreds of those same selfless people later lost their lives to cancer and other diseases from exposure to chemicals and materials in the rubble.

I learned new-to-me words like “Taliban,” “al-Qaeda” and “Osama bin Laden.” We soon found ourselves at war with al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, where even more men and women would die as an indirect result of the 9/11 attacks, including a young man I knew personally, Jason Hovater. We went to church together when I was a teenager. He died in the Battle of Wanat in July 2008, just days before his deployment was set to end.

It’s crazy for me to think about the fact that I will teach this day to my children like so many other big days in history they haven’t lived. Much like the Boston Tea Party, the shots on Fort Sumter, or the sinking of the Lusitania. It feels so detached, because I actually lived it. They will grow up knowing about things like terrorism at a much younger age than I did. They’ll never experience some of the things I remember from my childhood years, like being able to go past security at an airport to see off my dad on his travels or wait for him to step off the plane into the terminal when he returned. Not having to worry about how much liquid you pack in toiletries for air travel. The view of the NYC skyline. The government without the Department of Homeland Security.

I’ll recall the way Americans came together in the days and weeks after the attacks, finding solidarity in widespread grief, comfort in so many stories and displays of courage and heroism, and unity in our shared identity as Americans. Meeting even total strangers with kindness and compassion. I’ll remind them that in these days when we’re more divided than ever, we’re stronger when we work together than we ever will be lunging at each other’s throats.

I can’t believe it’s been 25 years. A quarter of a century. An entire generation is now alive that wasn’t when the towers were hit. On this anniversary, as with each past one, I continue to pray for the loved ones of all of those impacted in so many ways on that day–and in the days and years to come. The total impact will never be known.

Each one of those faces and names belonged to people precious in the sight of God. Human beings with a story. Men, women, and children who loved others and were loved by others. I will never forget. We must never forget.