09/11/2026
September 11 has always carried two meanings in my life.
For our nation, it is a day of profound grief—a day when nearly 3,000 innocent lives were taken and families were forever changed.
For me, September 11 is also my dad’s birthday.
Robert “Bob” Stark was born on this day in 1947. He was an Army veteran, a lifelong part of the community that raised me, and the man many knew as “Backhoe Bob.” He passed away on July 31, making this my first September 11 without him.
Twenty-five years have passed since the attacks of September 11, 2001. We remember the firefighters climbing stairwells while others escaped. We remember police officers, paramedics, service members, and ordinary citizens moving toward danger because someone needed them. We remember the passengers of Flight 93, who chose to act despite knowing the cost.
We should also remember what happened afterward.
For a brief and extraordinary moment, Americans saw one another differently. We were not primarily Republicans or Democrats—we were neighbors. We displayed our flag, gathered in churches, donated blood, checked on strangers, and thanked those who served.
Our grief reminded us that we belonged to one another.
Unity does not require uniformity. It does not ask us to abandon our beliefs. It asks us to remember the humanity of the person on the other side, listen before condemning, and recognize that our first emotional reaction does not have to control what comes next.
Today, I remember those who left home on an ordinary Tuesday morning and never returned. I remember the families who haveliste have carried an empty chair for twenty-five years.
And today, I also remember my dad.
Perhaps that is what this day asks us to hold: grief and gratitude, side by side.
Grief for those who are gone. Gratitude that they were here.
May we never forget—and may we remember that we still belong to one another.
Happy birthday in Heaven, Dad.
We remember. We grieve. We remain grateful. 🇺🇸
