As a child of fundamentalist Christians, I prayed for the missionaries in the cornfields. I must have been six and didn’t know the phrase “foreign fields” then—but I knew cornfields. We lived next to one.
The cornfields of the ’50s were not like those of today: rows so close nothing larger than a cat can move between them. In those days, rows were planted wider—wide enough for children to play hide-and-seek when the stalks had grown tall enough to conceal us in late summer.