This post is not nearly as fluid as I would normally put out…but I didn’t sleep much and this is the result of a midnight scrawl…
On the morning of September 11th, 2001, I was in Atlanta with my friend Kathy Gwin, picking up food for our church pantry. We were loading up a big van at the food bank like we’d done a dozen times before. At first, it was business as usual—busy, buzzing, shelves stocked full.
But as we moved through, things got quiet.
People were leaving early. The flatbeds weren’t being refilled. It felt off. Someone casually mentioned a bomb. It didn’t register—we were in the middle of a task, listening to gospel music, and had no phones on us.
On the way back home, we noticed the strangest thing:
Atlanta traffic was gone.
On a weekday. That just doesn’t happen.
When we pulled into the church lot, our husbands were waiting—visibly shaken. They tried to explain: two planes, New York, the towers, an attack. We didn’t understand the scope, not yet. We finished unloading food, went home, turned on the news—and the truth hit like a brick.
The world had changed.
That afternoon, the county called to cancel all kids’ sports. My boys were 5 and 7. They were frustrated about the game being canceled. I didn’t tell them why, not at first.
Later that night, we sat them down and showed them what had happened.
My 5-year old pointed to the screen and said, “I want to protect people when I grow up.”
And he did. He served as a U.S. Marine for eight years.
Years later, I walked through the 9/11 Memorial in New York City. Nothing prepares you for it. That silence. That weight. The heartbreak etched in steel and stone. But what struck me most was how, in that moment of devastation, we came together.
We waved flags. We prayed in parking lots. We called people we hadn’t spoken to in years. We remembered we were all Americans.
But now?
Now we are a nation on fire with rage.
We don’t just disagree—we dehumanize.
We don’t argue—we aim to destroy.
And with the recent assassination of Charlie Kirk, a man I admired for his calm clarity and steady voice, I can’t stay quiet.
It’s not just one man. And it’s not just now.
We’ve lost far too many to hate-fueled violence:
John F. Kennedy, gunned down in Dallas.
Robert F. Kennedy, killed right after speaking of unity.
Martin Luther King Jr., murdered while preaching peace.
Abraham Lincoln, assassinated for fighting to keep the nation whole. Malcolm X, shot for standing strong in his beliefs.
James Garfield, assassinated in a train station.
William McKinley, killed at a public meet-and-greet.
And we’ve seen it continue:
The Oklahoma City bombing, 168 lives taken out of sheer hate.
Pulse nightclub, 49 dead for how they loved.
Charleston church massacre, 9 lives taken during Bible study.
Tree of Life synagogue, 11 murdered while worshipping.
Buffalo supermarket, targeted for race.
El Paso Walmart, 23 killed—again, racially targeted.
Gabby Giffords, shot in the head while meeting constituents.
Steve Scalise, nearly killed at a congressional baseball game.
Uvalde, Parkland, Sandy Hook… Our children. Our schools.
It’s all the same thread: hatred given a weapon.
We used to mourn as one. Now we cheer for violence when it fits our narrative.
We used to honor differences. Now we cancel them.
We scream about freedom of speech—yet crucify people for using it.
What are we doing?
We can’t go on like this and expect to survive as a nation.
Not morally. Not spiritually. Not humanly.
9/11 brought us to our knees—but also brought us together.
And now, we’re tearing ourselves apart from the inside out.
Maybe it starts with choosing love.
Maybe it starts with remembering who we were that week in September.
Because if we don’t, we are going to lose more than buildings.
We’re going to lose each other.
XOXO, Jani
Journeys With Jani 