On September 12, 2001, while the ruins were still burning and America was struggling to comprehend what had happened, there was a knock at my door. The man standing there was the last person I expected to see.

He was a congregant who had been upset with me, and over time our relationship had grown strained. Whatever stood between us had seemed important just two days earlier.

“After what happened yesterday, I’ve been thinking all day,” he said. “Life is too short. Can you please forgive me?”

I have remembered that knock for 25 years.

Everyone remembers September 11. We remember where we were, how we heard, the smoke pouring from the towers, the people running through the streets, the awful realization that thousands of people who had begun an ordinary Tuesday morning would never come home.

September 11 carries its own terrible meaning. Nothing about what follows is meant to recast it. But over the years, I have also found myself thinking about the day that came after.

September 12 was a strange day in America. The planes were grounded. The markets were closed. Major league baseball cancelled. Families stayed close to home. People called relatives they had not spoken to in too long. Houses of worship filled. Neighbors checked on one another.

There was nothing beautiful about the circumstances that produced it. Thousands........

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