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I stared at the piece of paper, trying to make sense of the bold black print: "NIGGER! YOU'RE DEAD IF YOU LEAVE WICHITA." In the left corner "KKK" stood boldly beside a swastika. The lower right corner pictured a drawing of a brown-skinned woman with a bone in her hair, blood dripping from her neck. "YOU! DEAD COON!" the words shouted.
My legs trembled as I examined the envelope. The postman must have placed the letter in my mailbox by mistake. But my typed name and address were as neat and deliberate as the tiny drops of blood drawn in red ink. Then I noticed the postmark from Illinois—where my family and I planned to move in less than two months. Oh, God, what are you trying to tell me? I prayed silently.
My husband, Robert, and our three-year-old son, Marcus, were out of town. I called Robert and told him what had happened, hoping to hear words of comfort and reassurance. Determined to take a stance against racism, however, Robert resolved that we'd continue our plans to move. I wanted to scream, "Don't you understand? Somebody wants to kill me!" I'd never felt more alone—or more afraid. And then I grew angry—especially at God, because I felt God's hand had been in our initial decision to move.
Robert and I had lived in Kansas our entire lives. But the company I worked for was relocating to Texas. My efforts to find a similar position in our town, Wichita, had been unfruitful. I had a job in a specialized area, risk management, for which I was highly paid—even more than Robert, who worked in quality control. We decided to consider opportunities outside Wichita, since it would be easier for Robert to find another job, regardless of where we lived. Within days, one of my former supervisors, who'd relocated to Illinois, contacted me about a position at his company. I flew to the company's headquarters for the interviews. Shortly thereafter, I was offered the position. After prayerfully discussing it with Robert, I joyfully signed the employment contract, certain God was directing our path.
The letter arrived at my Wichita home three weeks later.
As I lay in bed during the first of many long, sleepless nights, the verse, "God is not the author of confusion" (1 Corinthians 14:33, NASB), seemingly mocked me. Repeatedly I asked God, "Why did you let them hire me?" Tears streamed across my cheeks as I wondered how someone could hate me so much.
I felt that someone working within the company had written the letter, since the postmark was from a city close to the headquarters building. I tortured myself with questions. When I walked throughout the building during the interview process, who had felt hatred upon seeing my black skin? How many people had had access to my résumé and seen my Wichita address? I desperately needed answers, so finally I reported the matter to the company and asked them to conduct an internal investigation. Since the mail was used to perpetuate a possible hate crime, the company contacted the FBI.
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