Then I moved to Chicago. I got a job in the Chicago Public Schools, and found very soon that there is an unwritten code here that demands that all Whites be shipped to schools where the racial balance is not quite what it is supposed to be. Such a policy is denied by the Board, but everyone knows it exists. I have been turned down at many "White" schools in this city and told that the reason is my race. I've served three schools here, and all of them have been either on the West Side or the South Side, predominantly African-centered schools.

As a Caucasian in an all-Black school, I soon came to understand Mrs. Harris. The adults have learned to accept one another pretty well, so that's never been a serious problem. But the children, as the ones in Cincinnati, have in many cases been carefully "taught" the prejudices of yesteryear. I was the "cracker" to some, "Mister Rogers" or "George Bush" to others. I've learned to cope with it. God's grace is sufficient. Mystery no more.

I used to wonder what it must be like living in a big city. The Cincinnati area is not tiny, but it surely feels that way when I go back now. I remember thinking how far I have to drive to get anywhere. I remember the fascination with all the people groups. And the fear when reading Chicago's headlines. Like the one my first week or so that told of the shooting of a prominent African American female lawyer on the West Side, one who had been loved and admired by many. How was this White guy going to make it on that same West Side, when he was definitely not loved and admired, at least not yet?

I used to wonder that, but I don't even think about it now. God has given me everything I have needed, first to survive, then to prosper. I cannot even remember my past life.

I've wondered about a lot of things. How could I ever live without processed sugar and fried foods and TV and movies? One by one they dropped out of my life. And still I live and live happily. What will it be like to be old? That one is starting to sink in too. And every step of the way, God says, "You can do it, just follow Me, I'll be Your portion today."

These days I've started wondering again. It's becoming an obsession with me, and perhaps one day I shall know the answer by experience also, though my flesh recoils at the idea now. What must it be like, I wonder, to be a North Korean in one of Kim Jong Il's concentration camps?

How would one like me fare, who desires "justice" and fairness so often, who so easily feels slighted and wronged, and who can make big deals out of almost nothing? Okay, even altogether nothing. How do the North Koreans endure having almost no food, and starvation of their loved ones and then themselves? How would I measure up if I knew I was to receive a daily interrogation accompanied by a beating, or if I were put in some solitary confinement where my claustrophobia would drive me mad?

Or at least I wonder. I don't really want to know, do I? Yet I am drawn into this struggle with a people who do know first-hand, every day, what it means. Am I better than they? Oh no! Am I promised no persecution? Not at all. Is comfort the standard by which we judge the call of God on our lives? Absolutely not. Does Jesus want all of His own to be willing to go to the cross with Him? Sounds like that's what the Word is saying.