Some days carry more sorrow than others. Today feels like one of those days—a day when grief seems to sit in the air like a mist, hard to escape and impossible to ignore.

The morning began with news of Charlie Kirk’s death. Only thirty-one. A leader, a voice for his generation, already shaping the conversation of his time. And now, so suddenly, silent. We expect long lives and full stories, but sometimes life stops mid-sentence. The loss feels larger than the years he lived.

Later, as I boarded a plane, sorrow found another expression. Just before takeoff, the captain’s voice filled the cabin—not with routine instructions, but with a pause and a tremor. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are carrying home the remains of a fallen soldier, accompanied by two military escorts.” The plane grew quiet. No one had to be told to respect the moment. Every heart seemed to bow at once, recognizing the price one life had paid for many.

And then, like an old wound stirred, the date itself pressed on me. September 11. Twenty-four years ago. I was in my office in Parkersburg when Jenny called. “Turn on the TV,” she said. We stood together, co-workers gathered around a small screen, watching in disbelief as the towers fell. After an hour, I went home. Ryan was barely a year old, and I remember holding him as if my arms could shield him from a broken world. That day, more than any other, reminded me how fragile life is and how fiercely we need each other.

Three moments, each a reminder of the same truth: life is brief, love is sacred, and grief is real. Yet as heavy as sorrow feels, it does not get the last word.

Hope walks alongside us. It may whisper more than shout, but it is there—woven into the silence of strangers honoring a soldier, alive in the memory of children who remind us what matters most, steady in the truth that love outlives death.

So what do we do with days like this? We remember. We grieve. We give thanks. And before the day is done, we let sorrow teach us again what it has always tried to say: that love is meant to be spoken, shared, held, while we still have time.