Making Meaning Out of Meaninglessness

A 9/11 Remembrance

I was in college. Junior year. Fast asleep. I woke up to the sound of my phone, ringing repeatedly — back to back to back calls. My friend, Morgan, told me to turn on my television. Planes were flying into buildings.

Several things happened in a succession I no longer remember. I logged on to my computer and saw a notification in AOL Instant Messenger (remember that?). Someone I was sort of “seeing” in the long distance relationship kind of way was in New York and she needed a favor: her cell signal wasn’t working and could I call her dad to let him know she was okay. So I did. This guy was a total stranger and I got hold of him while he was at work. My memory is fuzzy, but I might have broken the news to him of the attacks.

Also on AOL was a former girlfriend who needed the same kind of favor, so I called her mom, a nurse.

These were the days when email was still sort of a new concept on college campuses and, at least at my institution, you could email, like, everyone — students, faculty, staff — and so I did. I offered to lead a prayer service in the lobby of my residence hall. A few folks came for a while and we just grieved and prayed.

9/11 was half my life ago now. The woman whose dad I called is now my wife. I play fantasy football with some of the folks who showed up to the prayer session. I live in a city that abuts what is now called Fort Liberty, the home of soldiers who collectively have been to the wars that happened in direct (and indirect) response to the attacks for most of the last two decades.

In the years after the attacks, we encountered a lot of stories of heartbreak and heroism, many of which sought to redeem the moment and make meaning of it. One bit of logic I encountered a lot — and that I sometimes encounter in other tragedies — is the idea that everything happens for a reason. As though beauty can only exist in the face of darkness. As though God lines up the bad dominoes and pushes them over so that the later good dominoes happen.

This is nonsense. It is dangerous. And it is mean.

But it is true that we humans will make meaning out of senselessness. We must do this, I think, to stay alive and to name what matters. The stories are what keep us going.

My story isn’t particularly remarkable, but it does have meaning for me:

9/11 reshaped the landscape of my life in profound ways. It’s a reminder of the unpredictability of existence, the fragility of our plans, and the deep-rooted connections that emerge from the ashes. It also cemented for me the need to create in the face of destruction, to plant better seeds in the world, and to share the stories that will keep us connected.