I promise usually my posts will reflect my writing attitude, which is usually somewhere between sassy and snarky. But this week I had a unique experience that I need to share, and that’s what blogs are for, right?

Last week, I attended Scout Son’s Boy Scout meeting. As Merit Badge and Rank Advancement Goddess I pretty much have to attend meetings. But I don’t pay much attention. I’m there to collect paperwork and enter it in a database. Period. Yeah, I volunteer to do that. Confession: I plot my books in Excel. Using different colored text for each plot line. So the merit badge database is sort of relaxation for me.

Anyway, this week at the end of the meeting, the Grand Poobah of Scouts called us all together. Including me. This is never done. We had a contract. OK, technically the contract was “no uniform, no way,” but in my mind that implied no end of ceremony stuff either.

So we got into a circle. In the middle of the circle was an odd-colored brick. Only it wasn’t a brick. It was a hunk of steel. From the World Trade Center. Most of our boys were too young to remember 9/11. They don’t remember being able to keep your shoes on when you went through airport security, or being able to walk your family to the gate and watch their plane take off.

But they understood the gravity of that steel block. They understood the marks on the side where the metal had been sheared away. You’d expect it to have been silver. It wasn’t. It was black and rust-colored.

The owner of the block had asked for a piece of the wreckage during the clean-up, and was allowed to have this piece with the stipulation that he not sell it. And so he held on to it, kept it locked away, until Sunday. He brought it to his church service. Our Grand Poobah asked if he could bring it to our meeting, and so, there it was, sitting in front of a room full of formerly-screaming-now-silent boys.

We had the opportunity to touch it. To try to pick it up. Those of us who picked it up were surprised by how heavy it was. Heavy with the hopes, fears and dreams of all those we lost that day, and those who continue to give their lives today because they fearlessly went into the pit to save others. Heavy with the prayers, tears and grief of those they left behind.

Having picked up that block of steel, I carry some of the grief of those who lost someone to a tragedy that knew no borders. We all do. Hopefully, by carrying that grief across all our shoulders, we ease the pain of those who lost someone that day. A flight attendant in Pennsylvania. The boy you watched grow into a man.

I also carry the weight of those hopes and dreams that were never met. I owe it to those we lost to live life to the fullest and reach for my dreams. Never stop believing. In the words of Yoda, “There is no try. Do or do not.”

So I write. Because to do anything less is to dishonor the dreams and potential we lost on 9/11.

Follow your dreams, wherever they lead.