[Editor's Note: Zabelle Huss, who, with her husband, happen to be wonderful friends, is a Californian who now lives in Paris, France]

When we arrived, every seat in every pew was taken, and only a small, narrow pew against the back wall had two seats. We crowded into them, shoulder to shoulder with strangers. We've only been twice to the Sunday morning service, and both times it's been only a bit more than half full. Today was different. Today was the first Sunday after the attack on the United States.

We'd hesitated about going. Would it be safe? Wouldn't this be the perfect target for terrorists here in Paris? They could be sure it would be full of Americans. Or maybe it would be empty because others, too, were fearful. We were wrong. Though the skies were threatening rain, the church was full to brimming.

There was no mention of the attack in the standard hand-out we were given when we walked in. There was the normal agenda, starting with the organ voluntary, the page number for the hymns in the hymnals, the readings from the Bible, communion was held today, and there was to be a baptism. A baptism, I thought, a baptism? Like things were back to normal? Where was mention of the attack? We came here to be here with other Americans, to share in the sadness, to pay our respects to our dead.

At the end of the service, I saw we were singing "America the Beautiful". They'd not forgotten the attack after all. I looked forward to singing that with all these people today, even if we did have to wait through what I thought would be the interminable time it would take to give communion to so many people. But a baptism?

When the sermon started, the pastor mentioned the baptism right off. He seemed to hold my opinion about it being unusual to have a baptism today, of all days. But, he also held the same opinion I'd finally arrived at five minutes before….what better message for today of all days? This little child, Chloe, of British and French parents, was being baptized today. The world hadn't stopped for her, even if it had most surely changed.

Being here, being cramped, as the folding chairs filled the space between the last pew and us, sitting straight there on that very narrow seat, becoming warm and noticing someone had shut the glass doors to the foyer, knowing we'd have to wait at least a half hour just for communion to be given, was just about the very least we could do, but I was really uncomfortable. Uncomfortable, I thought? How dare I? How uncomfortable were our Americans in those two towers and the Pentagon on Tuesday? I was uncomfortable?

Two people were squeezed between the folding chairs and us, standing. "Vas-y", the husband said to his wife, pointing over to some folding chairs in the far corner. "Go over there," in French. Then, during the quiet of communion, I asked the young woman next to me if she was American or French. "Spanish," she said. "Do you come here often?" I asked her. "No, I just had to come today. I had to do something, even if it was just this. We are all Americans." Did I dare thank her? Should I be so presumptuous? I couldn't help it. I did. And she patted my shoulder.

Le Monde, one of the two largest French newspapers, had printed that on Wednesday "WE ARE ALL AMERICAN," right across the front page. Many European papers shouted that in huge print. Today at church I found out it wasn't just lip service at all. French were here, Spanish were here, who knows who else was there?

My husband and I had considered not coming because, frankly, we were a bit worried about who else might be there with us, hidden in the congregation. "They'll check my purse today going in," I told my husband, "I'll have to really clean it before we go!" "That's a good idea anyway!" he teased, he who calls my handbag "the black hole." He says there are things in my purse he's sure never come out again! He's probably right!

"Maybe I won't take my purse today." "But, you'll need ID," he said. "They may check ID's" I was relieved to hear the reason he thought we might need ID's. I couldn't say mine out loud. But my reason wasn't far from my mind. Particularly, when, twenty minutes into the service, a young man walked in and squeezed past me to a seat across the church from me. He was dark haired, and carrying a raincoat. In his hand, under the raincoat draped over his left arm, was a plastic bag with something inside it. He used the moment while he passed me to arrange it more comfortably and farther under his coat.

There I was in this overly crowded church, the front door blocked by at least twenty people. Were they checking the men outside, too, on their way in? Yes, they'd checked my purse, but barely, not even enough to notice how wonderfully clean it finally was. They hadn't checked my husband's pockets, nothing at all. There had been only two policemen strolling outside, and only this one person inside checking handbags. Had they checked under that man's raincoat?

It was getting close to communion and my husband, who'd given his seat next to me to a very old woman with a cane, was one of those blocking the exit! I stood up, starting walking, and whispered "let's go" as I passed him. Should I say something about that man with the coat and the bag? Should I create a problem? Surely, it was nothing. This was church, a place of worship. Wasn't this the one place I should trust? Wasn't that the message I should have received from church over the last years, that most of us are good, to trust our fellow man? Maybe the man had a friend there and was giving him a new book? But, what if I was wrong? Would I be responsible if that weren't a book underneath his arm? Would I be able to live with myself, if I lived? How could I sit there? Was this just my normal, paranoid self overreacting because of the vulnerability we've all begun to feel since Tuesday?

I was sad to leave as I walked out early with my husband. I wanted to sing "O beautiful for spacious skies", but felt concerned. And responsible. Happily, and reassuringly, the man who'd checked my bag was still there at the front door. "There's a man inside with a bag with something in it underneath his raincoat, are you checking the men's things, too?" "Yes," he smiled. I couldn't help thinking that he thought I was somewhat of a nutcase. But it didn't matter. I was relieved. And we went back in. I'd decided by then that, even if he hadn't really checked, I had to go back in. I had to sing the song.

Miraculously, in that crowd, my one space on the bench was still there. My husband and the others continued to block the exit, but the service would soon be over. Communion was finishing. And then the singing started. And we all stood up. And peoples' voices cracked around me as they sang and dug for Kleenex in their purses or pockets. The old lady who'd sat next to me suddenly started crying so hard her shoulders shook and I put my arm around this stranger and left it there till the singing was over. At one point, I was almost overcome…"America, America, God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea." Judging from the strength of those voices, it seemed that everyone had looked forward to singing that hymn. The recessional of choristers and priests and bishops and choir boys passed me, the Spanish girl, and the sobbing elderly lady, and walked out the front door. We'd made it. The man really did have a book under his jacket for a friend. I really did have to learn to trust again. And I got to sing the song with hundreds of Americans, French, Spanish, British, Germans (my husband!) and who knows who else? It didn't matter, really.

We were, for this day at least, all Americans.

Zabelle Huss
Paris, France