Remembering September 11: Moments of Unity in a Fractured World

It was a defining moment for my generation of millennials. We were in elementary and middle school, still forming our sense of the world. Moments like these carry the full spectrum of human emotion. There was pain, anger, and sadness, but also moments of gratitude and hope as communities came together through the grief. A little Franciscan perfect joy peeking through. Sporting events, concerts, neighborhoods, and especially the places most directly affected all showed signs of unity and resilience.

This event came nine years after the Columbine shooting in the neighborhood where I grew up. The emotions were similar. The pain never goes away, and it has never been forgotten. But I remember how our community gathered to grieve, to process, to support one another, and to choose a different story. We decided we would not be defined by tragedy. We would carve a new path and show that there is light in the darkness, and that the darkness cannot overcome it (John 1:5). That conviction has shaped the way I see the world.

In moments of collective grief, I often think about something Atava Swiecicki writes: “We don’t just inherit our ancestors’ trauma, but we inherit their resilience.” That line has stayed with me because it names a paradox at the heart of healing. Trauma can feel like an impasse when we try to understand it through linear thinking. But when we sit with it prayerfully, something deeper opens. Pain doesn’t disappear, yet in the very midst of unresolved hurt there can be a kind of interior liberation. The realization that although we were wounded, we lived. And because we lived, our very existence becomes a miracle. That paradox, that sense of being shaped by what breaks us and strengthened by what carries us, continues to guide how I understand resilience today.

So when I look at the pain and tragedy around us now, the frightening headlines, the degradation of our climate, and the ongoing loss of human dignity, I find myself remembering the flowers that grew through the ashes. I find myself craving moments that bring people together in unexpected ways.

One of those moments happened during the lunar eclipse the other week. My roommate and I walked to the lake across the street and spent hours looking up at the night sky with neighbors, strangers, and people passing by. Everyone was gazing at something beyond us with amazement. There was a palpable sense of unity. For a moment, we all felt connected to each other and to the created world that holds us, surrounds us, and stretches far beyond us. It’s hard to put words to.

Another moment came at our Board retreat last week in Chicago. I kept finding myself looking around the room, noticing the different people with different stories and backgrounds who somehow all landed in the same place, committed to creating a better world by amplifying the Franciscan spirit in our lives and in our communities. It can be easy to slip into isolation, especially as a small team of three at the Federation. But being with our Board members, and being reminded daily of how this Federation community shows up for one another, gave me hope and a renewed sense of purpose. It was another moment of unity.

I hope you can take some time today to pay attention, to consider, and to practice both lament and gratitude in whatever way feels right for you. Contemplation is never only personal. It is relational. It grows in the quiet spaces we hold with one another, in shared silence, in meetings where we practice presence, and in the way a group can breathe together even without speaking.

And in these shared spaces, we face a real spiritual question. Will we love our neighbors as ourselves, or will we measure our responsibilities only by who we consider “in” or “out” of our circles? Moments of crisis often reveal how deeply connected we actually are. The sciences tell us this. Our spiritual traditions tell us this. Yet we often cling to a fiction of separation that benefits some but not all. Lord have mercy.

If tears come, let them fall. In places of honest spiritual work, tears are not just tolerated but sometimes required. They are our prayers when words fail, a kind of baptism that draws us into the center of the conflicts we carry. They remind us that the thirst for God that brought each of us here is the same thirst that binds us to one another. This is why lament and gratitude matter both individually and communally. These are the kinds of spaces the Federation is committed to holding: places where lament and gratitude can be practiced, where people can gather, breathe, and remember who they are in relation to one another and to God. To get involved, you can browse our calendar, explore our networks, or join us in the Piazza.

Peace and all good,
Brady Young
Manager of Member Engagement & Communications