I’ll confess that I’m a romantic — a passionate lover of human emotions and the way they make me feel. Sometimes, sadly, I find myself people-watching simply to dwell on the sensations those situations give me. You can imagine what it was like for me after Sept. 11 last year. I was glued to the television. Like many Americans, I felt the various pains and emotions. I especially felt the sorrow and throbbing heartache words couldn’t describe.

It didn’t take long, however, until my spirits were somewhat lifted by the sweep of patriotism. I loved seeing flags on people’s cars. Every day I tried to see how many I could count, but the task was almost impossible. I loved seeing the lit candles. I loved seeing the signs hanging over freeways that read “God Bless America,” and “Pray, for such a time as this.” I even loved singing along to the songs that came across the radio in honor of those who had suffered.

In spite of all the wonderful, overflowing feelings in my heart, I’ll admit that I struggled with the idea of patriotism. Were flying flags and lighting candles what being patriotic was all about? If I didn’t have a flag (despite it being nearly impossible to find one during the first two weeks), then was I not patriotic? I wondered what constituted the definition of patriotism: “love of and devotion to one’s country.” I wondered even more so if all the displays of patriotism were just a fad. Would it be like having a new religion or romantic relationship — when everything feels overwhelmingly good at first and then the feelings wear off along with the signs of commitment? What would happen to this new patriotism sweeping America?

A couple of months later, the holidays came. Every year my dad’s side of the family gathers together for Thanksgiving dinner. Nestled in the airy mountains of northern San Diego County, my 93-year-old great-grandmother has a tiny house on several acres of an old ranch. It’s always been a fun time, but 2001 stands out vividly in my mind. More than 75 people showed up — many of whom I didn’t know — and somehow we managed to find places to hang out both inside and outside the house. As I heard the laughter and joy from all the adults and children, I was in heaven. We talked, we laughed, and we walked around the old ranch, picking fruit while the fall leaves crushed beneath our feet.

Soon dinner came and we stood around the patio with wall-to-wall tables. My dad and my uncle played “God Bless America” on their saxophones and we sang along. We didn’t have the best voices, but young and old, we sang anyway. It was a unique moment. Moved by emotion, my great-grandmother — who can barely see or hear — began to cry. We were united. We were a family. These were the sort of passionate emotions I loved to feel.

During that time of singing, I thought about our country, and I thought about patriotism. If true patriotism is love of and devotion to one’s country, then what was this? I love my country, but not just because of freedom. After all, being family isn’t about the country you live in; rather, a country is about family. If we had all of our same freedoms, but we didn’t have family, would our country still survive? How do people survive in countries without freedom? (They do, you know, and sometimes they’re even happy in spite of it.) How does anyone survive tragic events or crises? After the media stopped camping out at the doors of people affected by Sept. 11, and after strangers stopped sending them flowers and cards, those people only had one thing left: each other.

A family is patriotism at its finest — and patriotism is like family at its finest. Patriotism isn’t about being “the greatest country in the world,” though you wouldn't know it to listen to the speeches of some politicians. It’s not about worshipping your government and automatically identifying it with righteousness in all cases. Rather, patriotism is about loving your country for the same reason you love your family — not because they’re “great” but because they’re yours. Your country, like your family, is a part of you; you’re intimately tied to it, on a heartfelt level, for better and for worse. You identify not so much with its government as with its people. That’s why Sept. 11 hit us so hard. Those 3,000 strangers who were killed didn’t feel like strangers; they felt like our brothers and sisters.

I don’t mean to say “we’re all one big national family.” That doesn’t do justice to the special bonds we have for our real families. I do mean that God made us for affectionate attachments like the ones we feel for our families. In fact, He likens our relationships with Him to family ties. Throughout the Bible God often calls believers His “bride”; a famous hymn speaks of “God our Father, Christ our Brother.” These kinds of words reflect a love and devotion that it can scarcely be expressed. It’s a thing of the heart, and it runs deep with us, regardless of whether we’re putting it on public display. In fact, we often express it best within the walls of our homes, with a few of the people we know the best and treasure the most.

A family can, of course, be made up all sorts of people. On Thanksgiving Day, 2001, our family consisted of relatives and friends, in-laws and out-laws. The youngest was a 3-week newborn and the oldest was 93. Some of them I am very close to, and some of them I still don’t know their names. We weren’t a perfect family by any means, but for a few hours we gathered to love one another. This, I think, was a snapshot of America’s real strength: not our military hardware but our caring for each other.

After Thanksgiving, Christmas came and went along with the displays of patriotism. Each passing day brought flags down from people’s cars — I don’t even bother to count any more. Freeway overpass signs were quickly ripped and torn by the rain. The songs of tribute no longer flowed through the airways. Many people, including myself, often forgot that we were still in a war. The resurgent flags this year, on the first anniversary of the attack, will doubtless be short-lived. Patriotism had packed up.

And where did it go? The only place where it knows how to always survive: home. Yet even though not everyone can see it there, it’s still alive and well.