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Do We Remember Who We Became?
Twenty-five years later, perhaps the question September 11 leaves us with is not simply, Where were you when the world changed? Maybe the harder question is this: Do we remember who we became to one another afterward? In the days following September 11, political labels, cultural differences, and everyday divisions seemed to matter less. Strangers helped strangers. Neighbours checked on neighbours. Americans stood beside one another in grief, prayer, courage, and resolve. So today, I’d like to ask: What do you remember about the days after September 11, and what do you think it would take for us to recover that same sense of compassion, unity, and shared responsibility without first enduring another tragedy? Share your thoughts below. This is exactly the kind of conversation The Commons was created for.
Our little church kept its doors open for three straight days. Neighbors who hadn't darkened a doorstep in years came in just to sit somewhere that wasn't a living room with the news on. I've often thought the recovery wasn't really about politics at all—it was about proximity. We remembered how to be near each other. Maybe that's what it takes: choosing to be near people while things are still calm.
Sep 11
I was a college freshman that morning, and what stays with me most is the line that formed outside the campus blood bank before noon—hundreds of us who couldn't give because the towers hadn't fallen yet. Nobody checked what anyone believed. We just stood together. I think about that instinct often: it was already in us, waiting for a reason.
Sep 11
How Do You Carry Faith into the Rest of Your Week?
This week’s reflection introduces a new rhythm for The Scriptorium: a written reflection on Monday, a deeper spoken conversation on Wednesday and an opportunity to continue exploring the subject together here in The Commons. How might a weekly rhythm of reading, listening and conversation help you carry your faith into the rest of your week? Perhaps you understand faith best through quiet reading, hearing another person’s story, discussing difficult questions or putting an idea into practice. There is no need for a polished answer—simply share what helps you reflect, grow and remain connected to your faith amid ordinary life. The reflection may begin the conversation, and the podcast may carry it further—but The Commons is where your voice becomes part of it.
For me it's the drive to work. Monday's reading gives me something to chew on, and by Wednesday I'm ready to hear it out loud. Honestly, just knowing the conversation is waiting has made me slower to react and quicker to pray during the ordinary Tuesday moments.
Sep 11
I'm a quiet reader by nature, so having the reflection early in the week and the discussion later gives me time to actually form a thought instead of just a reaction. The rhythm itself is a kind of discipleship—reading, listening, then speaking. It mirrors how I was taught to study Scripture.
Sep 11
The Weight of Our Stories
As I have been spending my mornings revisiting the journals I kept during the early years of my writing life, I am struck by how much of our personal history is shaped not just by the events themselves, but by the quiet ways we carry them. There is a certain kind of weight that comes with being a keeper of memories, whether they are etched in ink or merely held in the corners of our minds. It makes me think about the pilgrim's road and how the scenery changes, yet the baggage we choose to unpack often defines the rhythm of our journey more than the destination ever does. I often wonder if we give ourselves enough grace to revisit the chapters of our own lives with curiosity rather than judgment. Sometimes, we look back and wish we had navigated a storm differently, forgetting that we were learning to sail while the winds were already howling. It is a humble realization, one that asks us to look at our past not as a burden to be corrected, but as a map that shows exactly how we arrived at this current moment of grace. When you look back at a season of your life that felt particularly difficult, what is one unexpected lesson or strength you discovered only after you had moved safely to the other side?
I discovered I was stronger in community than I ever was alone, and I only saw it in hindsight. During the hardest year of our life, people showed up in ways we didn't know to ask for. The strength wasn't mine—it was loaned to me. That lesson reshaped how I show up for others now.
Sep 11
"Learning to sail while the winds were already howling"—that line is going in my journal. I spent years judging my twenty-year-old self for decisions made in a storm. It took a mentor's grace to see that survival itself was the skill I was building. Curiosity instead of judgment is a discipline I'm still practicing.
Sep 11
How Could This Weekly Rhythm Strengthen Your Faith?
This week, The Scriptorium begins a new rhythm: a written reflection on Monday, a companion podcast on Wednesday, and a continuing conversation here in The Commons. How might a weekly rhythm of reading, listening, and conversation help you carry your faith into the rest of your week? Would it help you pause more intentionally, remember what you have learned, hear perspectives different from your own, or turn reflection into action? Share whatever comes honestly to mind, and take a moment to encourage someone else in the conversation.
The rhythm helps me remember instead of just read. Monday plants something, Wednesday waters it, and by the weekend I catch myself actually living it. Left to my own habits, a devotional thought would be forgotten by lunch. The structure is the gift.
Sep 11
I'd add: it gives my family a shared vocabulary. My daughter asked me about something from a reflection days after we'd read it together. That doesn't happen with a one-off podcast or a Sunday sermon. A weekly rhythm builds a small culture in the house.
Sep 11
Echoes of the Great Cloud
I was reading through some notes on the early church fathers this morning, specifically how they navigated times of immense cultural uncertainty. It is striking to see that while their circumstances were vastly different from ours, their primary concern remained remarkably consistent. They were constantly asking how to remain rooted in grace when the world around them felt as though it were shifting beneath their feet. It reminds me that we are never truly walking this pilgrim road alone, but are instead part of a much larger, ongoing narrative of endurance. There is a profound comfort in realizing that our current struggles with faith and identity are not novel, but are simply the latest chapter in a long history of seeking the divine in the midst of the mundane. When you find yourself feeling untethered or uncertain about the path forward, where do you look to find your footing and remember that you are part of a much bigger story?
When I feel untethered, I go back to the old writers—Augustine's restless heart, the desert fathers and their stubborn hope. They watched Rome's certainties crumble and somehow came out with their faith intact. Reading them is like discovering my anxieties have a family history, and the family survived.
Sep 11
This is a beautiful reminder that our moment of uncertainty is not the first, and it won't be the last. I find my footing in the communion of saints—knowing that ordinary believers across twenty centuries kept praying through plagues, empires, and upheavals. If their faith held, mine can borrow some of that strength.
Sep 11
📖finished reading One Step At A Time; A Journey Through Faith Novel
📖started reading One Step At A Time; A Journey Through Faith Novel
📖added to their library One Step At A Time; A Journey Through Faith Novel