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I adjusted the cord on my wooden cross necklace as I switched the microphone off and waited for the next station break. Leaning back, I glanced down the news-sheet, making a mental checklist of what to include in my next broadcast. Lead off with one of the national stories, then a couple of local stories, today's big news about the governor, and finish with weather and a plug for tomorrow's morning show.

David* opened the studio door, fumbling with his usual armload of sheet music, books, CDs, and a diet cola. He was the station's artistic director, and he had helped me to secure a month-long internship at my local public radio station. He gently dropped his pile of work onto the table and gave me a morning grin.

"Joe asked me to send you in to see him," David said, straightening his tie and brushing at an ancient-looking stain on his shirt.

Joe Fallano, the station manager, generally stayed in his office and let the other staff handle my training and supervision; I hadn't had much contact with him. He sat hunched over his desk when I entered.

"Sit down, Caleb," he told me, pointing a gnarled finger at the chair opposite his desk. I lowered myself into the seat. "Caleb, you've been doing a good job. You seem to be catching on quickly."

"Thank you, Mr. Fallano," I replied. "It's been a great experience for me, too."

"Do you know why I called you in here?" he said. I shook my head and shrugged.

Mr. Fallano stood up from his desk but remained on the far side of the room. He straightened his tie and buttoned his suit coat. "Caleb, we've got a professional image to maintain at this station, so I need to talk to you about how you dressed for work today."

The collar of my turtleneck sweater suddenly became very itchy, but I breathed a sigh of relief that my wardrobe was the only problem. "I'm sorry, Mr. Fallano," I said. "I didn't realize this was too casual. I'll be sure to wear a shirt and tie from now on."

Mr. Fallano turned and smiled a little. "That's good," he said. "But I'm also worried about what you have around your neck."

My fingers instantly found the wooden cross on my chest; the once-sharp corners had grown smooth and familiar over time. "My necklace?"

"Yes. But what's on the necklace?"

"It's a cross." I wore it every day. People knew me by my necklace. It symbolized who I was as a follower of Christ.

"Caleb," he said matter-of-factly, "nobody said you could wear a cross at a public radio station."

"Maybe the Constitution?" I blurted out, before pausing to consider whether this was a wise thing. Every wall in my defense system shot up, and my instinct was to valiantly stand my ground in the name of Christ.

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