I grew up in the firehouse.

My dad was a captain at a station in Asheville, and some of my favorite memories involve the musky smell of a firehouse, and the sound of sirens racing off.

At the time, my dad was the strongest man I’d ever known, and I admired his bravery and the courageousness of his firemen brothers.

But, at 13 years old, on Sept. 11, 2001, I saw my father cry for the first time.

After school let out for the day, my mother picked me up and we made our way to my father’s station, where he was on call for 24-hours.

Walking into the firehouse, that usually had men scattered across it, a few washing the massive truck, one running on the treadmill, and at least four cooking in the kitchen –now was quiet, with only the sound of a faint TV in the background.

Every fireman on duty that day and many who weren’t, crowded around the TV set, with their wives and children by their side, and watched the devastation.

Every man in the room, all strong, muscular firemen who fought fires and saved lives each day…was crying.

Not sobbing, but sincere, quiet tears.

For their brothers, for the fear abruptly instilled in them, and for their desire to fly to New York City and start getting their hands dirty.

I believe almost everyone has a memory of what they were doing, or who they were with, or how their lives were affected or not affected by Sept. 11.

Today is the seventh anniversary, and I can’t help but wonder how far we’ve come –or if we’ve come at all.

Following the attacks in New York and in Washington, President George W. Bush declared war on Iraq and began the “War on Terrorism.”

Since then, soldiers, civilians and reporters have lost their lives, and an ungodly amount of money has been poured into reconstruction and the military.

We’ve destroyed and tried to build up, killed and apologized later.

We’ve come together as a nation, waving our American flags proudly, and completely trashed the reputation of our current president.

We’ve done a lot of things and made a lot choices –many of which were out of our hands.

But in all this destruction, blood, moneybags, and 24/7 news channels –have we forgotten how the attacks changed families?

How children lost their fathers, their mothers or both?

How almost everyone has watched or heard about someone who had to leave for war?

How some of those who left never returned?

How, seven years later, we’re wondering how to make it from paycheck to paycheck, and if our college degrees will result in jobs with a failing economy?

How we will recover from a so-called “mental recession?”

Sure, Sept. 11 raised a lot of questions, so why are we only answering the ones focused on money, on revenge, or shaping a new government for another country?

Because the “we,” is the government.

Has the government ever focused on the emotional, personal and tragic affects of war? Of even natural disasters?

Is it not the non-profits, the every-day citizen that rises above to make a difference? Or raises funds to help supplement someone in need?

It’s not the government.

So while we blame them for not helping our families, or caring about the loss of jobs, or helping us deal with the grief we feel, they aren’t to blame –because they won’t change.

It takes the extraordinary volunteer to say something is wrong, and change it.

Those people are out there.

St. Paul’s Chapel, right next to Ground Zero in New York, is garnished top-to-bottom with memorials, letters, badges and pictures from such individuals.

The chapel stands tall and bold next to the aftermath of the Sept. 11 tragedies.

And while the memorial is incredibly sad, and shook me to my core when I first walked through it –it also eludes a light of hope.

A hope designed by volunteers.

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