The Extraordinary Day

September 11 was an extraordinary day. It wasn't a good day, it was awful. But nothing about it was ordinary.

It was a day with extraordinary loss. It was a day filled with examples of extraordinary courage and bravery. But as I've aged, I've understood how extraordinary it was more deeply. When it happened, it felt like something at a distance, that happened to those people over there. I didn't know anyone who was directly affected by 9/11.

But now, it feels so much bigger. To have a mass murder numbering in the thousands is incomprehensible. 2,000 people feels so much bigger now than when I was in high school because I better understand the gravity and consequence of a single life.

I understand now, too, that there were people across the spectrum of humanity that perished - there is someone relatable to all of us that was lost on that day. There were wealthy businessmen and the people who cleaned the offices. Young kids interning, and people who just happened to have a business meeting that day, who were from out of town. There were first responders and priests. There were young and old. People who probably had just returned from their honeymoon or who had just welcomed a child. There were people there from all over the world.

Everyone of those people, I understand now, had an extraordinary story in one way or another, because everyone has an extraordinary story. More than 2,000 people who left their families devastated when they left. 2,000 plus people isn't just numbers - it was an extraordinary loss, which I didn't appreciate 25 years ago.

What got me much more deeply this year was remembering stories about United 93. There were people who called their spouses from the plane. Who took a few minutes to tell the love of their life, that they were going to try to take over the plane, letting it be unspoken that they would probably die. They called to say "I love you." And give their partners a chance at closure, and a chance to move on with their lives. A chance to avoid life's biggest wound - not saying goodbye.

It is something that haunts me. I didn't get to say goodbye to anyone close to me that has died. Not my cousin, Nakul. Not my grandparents. Not my father. Not my friend Wyman. These are among my life's biggest regrets, because I cannot say I love you to them now. I missed my last chance to tell these people, with the realest honesty and warmth how much they meant to me.

What an extraordinary act of mercy that is, to love and try to say goodbye - when you know your life is about to suddenly and tragically end. When you have minutes left and you call someone else not only because you want to talk with them one last time, but you know they would want to talk to you. It is selfless and brave. It is of the purest love. It is heartbreaking. And it most certainly is extraordinary.

I feel so much more sorrow and loss for my fellow countrymen at this 25th anniversary because as I have aged - and loved and lost - I understand the preciousness of a single life, and of mercy much more deeply. I know love and I know death and grief. I know what it feels like to know that you would die to protect your kids and your wife. I know the unsettling driving feeling to want to say I love you, just one more time. I know the joy of family bonds and what it feels like to be redeemed from loneliness.

The stakes of a life are so high. Even one life can be so rich and deep. Just one life, is self-justifying. One life is extraordinary. 2,000 plus lives, to lose that in the span of hours is loss so large that there is no other reaction than to be numbed to it.

I hope that is one of the lessons that we take away from 9/11 and that people, like my sons, who weren't even born when it happened, remember. I hope, beyond the geopolitics and the stories of bravery and courage, we remember the mercy people shared in the darkest of times. I hope we remember the immense loss that one life is, let alone more than two thousand. I hope we remember that every life is extraordinary.

Mercy, Unasked

Mercy

I have never asked for mercy once in my life—until today. Not from a person, and not in prayer. Not once. A surprisingly vivid memory from high school is a microcosm of why.

I was hanging out with a bunch of other guys from school in my friend’s basement—for our weekly post-school afternoon of the Nerf Combat League. (Yes, it was a real thing, and yes, it was awesome.) I can’t remember why, but I ended up wrestling someone. Which is surprising, even now, because I haven’t wrestled anyone before or since.

Obviously, I was pinned quickly. The guy wrestling me, Mike, kept saying, “Tap out, tap out!” And I didn’t—not until my trachea started to tighten and saliva dripped from my mouth.

Mike said something like, “You didn’t tap out. Respect.”

That’s what it’s like for a teenage boy—you take pride in not asking for mercy. Mercy is just not a currency you exchange in. It’s not that anyone is anti-mercy; it’s that the concept of mercy may as well not exist. If anything, you’re supposed to be the one powerful enough to grant mercy to someone else. And some even sadistically relish being the one who inflicts suffering, itching for the payoff of someone begging for a reprieve.

As awful as a world would be where no one shows mercy, I think it would be even colder—more dystopian—if no one even asked for it. Looking back, the fact that I can’t recall ever asking for mercy—in any situation—feels deeply warped.

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Those who are truly holy and noble, I believe, are the ones who show mercy even when it’s not asked for.

Reflecting on this today, I realize I’ve certainly been the beneficiary of mercy I didn’t ask for. Because during this past year—the longest and hardest of our lives—angels have shown up. Constantly.

There have been friends who offered warmth. Family who bailed us out of binds. Colleagues whose dad jokes doubled me over with laughter. Neighbors who looked in on us. Other parents at the school or on our soccer team who have our back—and let us have theirs.

Mentors who guided me through a formation of faith and immense professional challenge. Even strangers in public who found ways to encourage me when I was solo with the kids at the grocery store. And perhaps most of all, there’s Griffin’s magnetic, earnest smile—a joy so pure, it feels divinely gifted.

These are two of the most important lessons of the year, and both are about mercy.

• First: to ask for it. Such a simple lesson, yet so enigmatic.

• And second: that there is mercy all around us that we never asked for.

To be that kind of person—an agent of mercy, whether sourced from God, from our soul, or from wherever you believe mercy comes—who offers it unasked…That, I believe, is the high watermark of holiness we can reach as mere mortals.