I don’t know about you, but for me, September 11th came and went as a “national day” without much notice this year. And yet, personally, this day will forever be ingrained in my own consciousness, as I lost my college roommate in one of the World Trade Towers. I can’t help but wonder about our nation’s response to losing Frank and other innocent bystanders on that day.

Each year since September 11, 2001, we, as a nation, have engaged in the ritual of remembering those who lost their lives, and declare our re-commitment to fighting terrorism wherever it may dwell. Maybe because of the recent health care debate, or other distractions, this year the 9/11 rituals seemed to gain little traction. Tell me, did I miss something? I often wonder if we have squeezed out the meaning from this day – with all the speeches, declarations, seminars, press conferences, and the like. What do they add up to?

This year, the president even declared 9/11 to be a National Day of Service, the culmination of a Summer of Service. But what service, with whom, about what, toward what end? I saw the proclamations and the news articles, but I didn’t hear or see much about the service itself. Even if small actions did take place, which I believe many did, the National Day of Service did not permeate our collective consciousness. In communities, and in the nation, we didn’t turn in a new and meaningful direction toward service. Our nation is not changing because of the National Day of Service. Was it anything more than a one-off event?

It is change, and not simply more activity, that I seek. I have not lost the memory of that ugly day, when I watched from my study, the first Tower, and then the next, get hit and implode, falling to the ground, as one person after another leaped from the sky hoping to find a safe resting place. But they didn’t. We know the story all too well. Like my buddy Frank, they called their loved ones, left messages, and then jumped or disappeared inside those towering infernos.

Now, still less than a decade since that frightful day, we find ourselves enveloped in two wars, arguing bitterly about our own hand in torture, with a sitting president being called a liar in the House chamber. We then declare a Summer of Service – and then a National Day of Service – hoping to heal the wounds and to call us to something larger than ourselves, only for that to turn into a “nice” effort but not an essential one.

And yet, for me, the question I keep retuning to during this time is, “What is essential for us to do?” By that I mean, what should we be focused on? What truly matters? What will make a real difference? I don’t ask these questions merely as a rhetorical device, but more in terms of how we might turn toward one another and engage in an honest conversation about what we should do.

I don’t have easy answers for any of these questions, and I refuse to pretend I do by listing off here a catch-all prescription for the nation. Not this time, at least. I can’t get Frank out of my mind, and on this day I don’t want to diminish his death by offering up silly or shallow solutions.

Instead, I want to remember Frank by calling myself back to what matters. It is never easy, nor without pain.