I was getting ready for work when I heard that a plane had hit the first tower.

Like so many people, I turned on the television and tried to understand what I was seeing. I listened for about an hour before I finally had to leave for work. I remember exactly where I was when everything changed for me. I was turning onto Parker Road from my neighborhood when I heard that a second plane had hit the other tower.

That was the moment I knew.

We were under attack.

I spent that day working at the bank. Very few customers came in, and those of us who were there moved through the day feeling raw, frightened, heartbroken, and unsure of what was coming next.

One phrase seemed to be everywhere:

United We Stand.

Twenty-five years later, I can still remember what those words felt like.

I will never forget.

A quarter of a century has passed, and our country—and honestly, our world—feels very different.

I love this country. That does not mean I believe it is perfect. There are plenty of things I would change if someone would just hand me the appropriate paperwork and perhaps a reasonably powerful magic wand. But loving something has never required believing it is flawless.

In fact, I think part of loving something is wanting it to become better.

One of the beautiful things about this country is that it can change. We, the people, have always been part of that process.

Our economy has changed. Technology has changed us. Communities have changed. Each generation looks at the problems it inherits and comes up with its own ideas about how to solve them. Sometimes those ideas are brilliant. Sometimes they are shortsighted. Sometimes older generations forget that the world young people inherited is not exactly the same world they grew up in. And sometimes younger generations forget there might actually be a reason Grandma keeps telling that same story for the 47th time.

She may know something.

Every generation has its quirks.

Mine certainly does.

I recognize enough of my own generation's nonsense to know I probably shouldn't stand on too tall of a soapbox pointing fingers at anybody else's.

What I wish we could recover is something much simpler: the ability to work together.

Not agree on everything.

Not think alike.

Not vote alike, worship alike, live alike, or solve problems exactly the same way.

Just recognize that the person standing across from us has value, too.

There was a time when helping your neighbor was simply what you did. Communities depended on one another. Families depended on one another. Sometimes survival literally depended on knowing that when things went sideways, somebody would show up.

Today, it can feel like we are surrounded by people and still somehow completely alone.

Families drift apart. Neighbors can live ten feet from one another and never learn each other's names. We communicate constantly, yet somehow meaningful connection can feel harder to find.

And I think we are poorer for it.

Which brings me, naturally, to the thing hanging out of my nose.

Yes.

My nose.

A couple of days ago, a friend looked at me and very kindly informed me that I had a little white "thing" hanging out of my nose.

You know the thing.

The thing nobody wants to tell you about.

The thing that immediately makes you wonder:

HOW LONG HAS THAT BEEN THERE?

Was it there five minutes?

An hour?

Did I have an entire conversation with someone while this thing waved at them every time I breathed?

How many people saw it and thought, Well... that's unfortunate, and then just carried on with their day?

I will never know.

But my friend told me.

And after the initial horror—and the immediate inspection of my face—I realized something.

I was grateful.

She did me a solid.

She cared enough to risk one mildly awkward moment so I wouldn't spend the rest of the day unknowingly walking around with a flag flying from my nostril.

That is love.

Not glamorous love.

Not greeting-card love.

Not the kind anyone writes poetry about.

But love nonetheless.

I am that person too. If your tag is hanging out, I'll tell you. If you have toilet paper stuck to your shoe, I'm coming after you. If your dress is tucked into your underwear, we are shutting down operations immediately.

I'm not telling you to embarrass you.

I'm telling you because I've got you.

I don't want you getting home eight hours later, looking in the mirror, and thinking, Dear Lord, how many people let me walk around like this?

Maybe we need more of that.

Not necessarily more people monitoring everyone's noses—although apparently some of us require supervision—but more people willing to say, I've got you.

And that requires something that seems increasingly difficult: looking beyond our differences long enough to see one another as human beings.

Different viewpoints aren't always threats. Sometimes they expose holes in our own thinking that we couldn't see from where we were standing.

When you can genuinely talk with someone who sees the world completely differently than you do—not because you are waiting for your turn to prove them wrong, but because you actually want to understand how they got there—you grow.

They might grow too.

Neither one of you may completely change your mind.

That's okay.

Growth doesn't always mean agreement.

Sometimes it simply means understanding the problem a little better than you did before.

If the only goal is winning the argument, nobody learns much. Nobody changes much. And solutions have a difficult time appearing when everybody is busy shouting from opposite sides of the room.

We stay stuck.

Much like that booger hanging out of my nose.

Right there.

For the whole world to see.

Waiting for somebody to care enough to say,

"Hey... I've got you."

Twenty-five years ago, the words were United We Stand.

Maybe unity today doesn't mean we suddenly agree about everything.

Maybe it starts much smaller.

Check on your neighbor.

Listen before answering.

Assume there might be something worth hearing.