Worshippers in one of the churches closest to the scene of the attempted assassination of former president Donald Trump on Sunday were struggling to come to terms with the shooting that has shaken their tight-knit, rural community.
Pastor Millie Martsolf of Butler First Church of the Nazarene tried to reassure her shocked parishioners as they gathered in the wood-roofed modern church building for Sunday's service.
"I think about all the stuff that happened in our tiny little community, just up the road," she said of the incident that has upended life in the small Pennsylvania community of around 14,000 people, now overrun by police and reporters.
"I know as we speak of it to others, as we share our political views -- whatever they may be, Biden, Trump, it doesn't matter -- as we share those, we have a choice to speak as Christ has taught us, or we have a choice to be angry, or bitter.
"No matter who you want to vote for, speak with love."
One woman was comforted by a fellow worshiper as she knelt at the altar for much of the service before asking to address the congregation.
"The man that was killed yesterday is my daughter-in-law's first cousin," said a middle-aged woman in an olive green blouse, standing in front of a backlit crucifix.
"My son and daughter-in-law were very tragically upset over all of this.
"He was shielding his wife and daughter. This has just hit home for all of us."
Pennsylvania's governor identified the victim as Corey Comperatore, and confirmed on Sunday that he had died protecting his family.
The church's reverend, Stephen Smith, called on the parishioners to pray for the dead man and his family.
"These are heavy times and these are times that we don't understand," he said, tearing up.
"We'll deal with loss, and I think it's safe to say that we all feel the weight of losing someone from the community."
The church's keyboardist, leading a prayer, said "we thank you that former president Trump was not killed, we mourn the loss of life and injury."
"But at the same we have to be grateful there wasn't more," she added.
"I ask peace and healing for those who have been traumatized, right here in our midst today are people who were there."
The somber mood was lifted briefly when the congregation was given an update on "banana boxes," the church's drive to provide care packages to those in need.
Nearby, state troopers manned a cordon on a road leading to the fairground that hosted the fateful Trump rally, the last such campaign event scheduled before the Republican National Convention in Wisconsin next week.
The giant US flag suspended on a crane above the stage where Trump was speaking before coming under fire and being bundled away was still visible to drivers who slowed to catch a glimpse of the scene of the shooting.
"I can't imagine just living here across from the farm show and you hear gunshots. It would be a lot to take in," said Dane Rahoi, a 33-year-old professor of veterinary medicine who had driven two hours to visit the site of the rally.
"I can't imagine growing up in this," said the man as he walked his dog, Dana. "Everybody's pretty damn fragile."
