The Cornfield Cathedral


It was the Summer I was almost 5 when I discovered the glory of morning glories in the cornfield.

I rose early (I always was an early riser) and put on a sunsuit—by myself. No one saw me as I padded through the kitchen and out the back door. The dewy wet grass felt delicious on my bare feet, the air was still and cool, and the whole world was washed with gold.

I had a destination. Yesterday Grandpa had complained that morning glories were taking over a corner of his cornfield. I had to see them before he destroyed them. Morning glories were considered a nuisance weed.

I walked the little path that ran along one side of the cornfield and saw them right away, their vines dancing from stalk to stalk, their blue and purple faces turned up to the sun. I walked down the cornstalk aisle. The big leaves were wet and scratchy, but when I looked up—oooh, how beautiful! It was as beautiful as the big round window in our church when the sun shone through it.

Completely enchanted, I stayed in the cornfield cathedral, turning circles, looking up to watch the kaleidoscope-like patterns of flowers change until I was dizzy, thoroughly wet, and wearing a morning glory necklace.

Mom and Grandma were in the kitchen when I returned. Both asked me at the same time, “Where on earth have you been?”

“You’re sopping wet,” Grandma added.

“Go dry off and put on a dry sunsuit,” Mom ordered.

At breakfast I tried to explain why I was in the cornfield.

“It was just like being in church” was the best that I could do.

—By Cora Raiford of Jacksonville, FL.


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