A defining moment in history

Dallas

Separation of church and what? Legally, such a thing exists when it comes to organized prayer in public places. But as we have all seen, there is no such thing in a time of tragedy.

In the days following the attacks on America, we have seen partisan bickering cast aside. Members of Congress sang and prayed together. President Bush has requested prayers for the families of the victims and for the nation. He has asked God to bless this great nation.

As I listen to the radio, I hear "Amazing Grace" and "God Bless America." One station has vowed to play a particular inspirational tune once an hour until there's a final tally on all the missing. The station has asked listeners to "pray wherever they are" when the song is aired.

On live TV, something I never thought would happen occurred: A national anchor reciting the 23rd Psalm. He spoke of how much comfort it brings in a time of trouble. Fighting back tears, he could barely continue.

Our collective faith has been shaken. But a great man once told doubting followers that they should not be afraid in a raging storm, because He would be with them to calm the winds and waves. This is our biggest storm, and it says much that we aren't too proud to do what comes naturally: call on a higher power.

You don't have to be in "God's house" to pray. I do it on the expressway, in the shower, on the phone with friends. I send prayers by e-mail or messenger. Sometimes, when the tears won't stop, I get out an old tablet and write my thoughts, along with the names of those on a prayer list.

I hope our leaders know many of us have been praying all our lives. For years, we have prayed for world peace, an end to hunger, and unity among the races. Unfortunately, it has taken monumental tragedy to produce the priceless kinship I now feel with my fellow Americans.

Joyce King is a veteran reporter.

Brussels

Like all Americans, we were devastated by the attacks. We received e-mails from friends in the States, saying they were happy, for once, that we were living in Brussels this year. Until now, Washington had been our home.

My children's international school canceled classes Wednesday. One parent told me the school advised the kids to be inconspicuous for the next few days.

"Tell them not to wear things like Yankees caps, or to talk loudly in public, because then people will know they're American," she said. My 16-year-old son defiantly said he was going to wear a black armband. My 13-year-old daughter was terrified, imagining that Americans abroad would be targets. I wanted to reassure her that we were safer here than in Washington, but I couldn't be sure. We stayed inside all day Wednesday, watching CNN reports and looking out at the gloomy Brussels rain. We felt far from home.

The next day, we decided we needed our normal routine. I read my way through dozens of patriotic e-mail messages from friends. I signed up to sing with an international chorus. When other chorus members - Belgians, French, Danes, Irish, English - learned I was from Washington, there was a pause, and then their faces took on a stricken look.

I could tell they wanted to say something, to show their sorrow, but they didn't know quite what to say. I've lost no family or close friends, I said.

What else was there to say?

Then something happened that changed my perspective. A neighbor came to my door, her face mournful. She took both my hands in hers, and said, in French, that she was so sorry for the tragedy, that she hoped my family and friends were safe. All I could say in my weak French was, yes, "ma famille" was "tres bien." Tears came to my eyes.

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