by KIMBERLY A. MILES

T'S A FOGGY FEBRUARY MORNING HERE IN THE central San Joaquin Valley-the kind of fog we all call "pea soup." The kind you really shouldn't drive in. It's 7:30 a.m., and kids are on their way to school. I breathe a prayer. I'm making sack lunches. I hold my glass of orange juice and squint out the kitchen window. I can't even see the other side of the road. It's incredible. The fog makes the air feel thick. The chilly feeling goes to your bones, although it really isn't that cold. I watch my daughter walk next door to fourth grade, and today I am thankful we live so close that we don't have to drive. I stand in the yard until I'm sure she's safe in her classroom, and then head back in.

The field across the street is wet and clumpy. A few tenacious weeds poke out in several places, but it's mostly a huge expanse of dark earth-soggy and quiet-waiting for spring. Me too.

I barely notice the field across the road for several weeks, even on days when the sun burns the fog off. Patches of blue sky tease about weather that used to be. We grumble about the heating bills while we decorate for Valentine's and plan Jana's birthday party and spring break. I feel like Bambi: "Winter sure is long, isn't it, Mother?"

One morning a rackety tractor causes me to look out the window. The farmer is plowing up the field. I watch for a while, and when my youngest daughter comes into the kitchen for Cheerios, I pick her up and we watch him together. Up and down. Back and forth. Slow but sure. The repetition and rhythm inspire me. Later in the morning we dig out last year's seed catalog and talk about where in the backyard we might have a little garden. It's March. Foggy days are numbered.

Suddenly there seems to be activity every couple days in "my field." I look forward to the action as I'm passing through with laundry or doing dishes. I'm distracted as I teach piano lessons to my students in front of a large window. Occasionally I take a snapshot or two of the progress. The earth is manipulated from disorganized lumps to soft level ground. Then to deep brown furrows. Blackbirds can't believe their good fortune as fat worms are exposed from their dark hiding places. The sun gets the idea and pours forth warm rays. The aroma is wonderful! The smell of life in the making.

What is holding this up? I wonder. Plant, already! But the farmer comes by in his pickup every few days and stops at the field. He walks around the field and bends down to take the soil in his hands. He lets it run through his fingers and looks out across the ground. Then he gets back in his truck. I wonder when the soil will be just right.

Finally comes the huge machine that plants the seeds. Sara and I sit on the porch for this exciting event! I take another picture. The boys driving the loud equipment wave at us. It takes most of the day, and we get tired of watching. But the potential for growth and growing is contagious, and I can feel my spirits lift as spring comes to stay. My little garden spot is turned over. So Sara and I bring home baby plants and seeds, and go to work.

Spring break, Easter, family visiting from out of town, another birthday at our house, and graduation is fast approaching. All the while the little seeds that were planted have been busy. Tiny timid shoots have emerged from the soft ground, much to my delight. The rows are perfectly straight-flawless and true.

I love to gaze at the corn, especially in early morning. The deepest green against the richest brown. By now the unsure stems are hardy stalks, and send out thick, broad leaves. One foot. Two feet. Three feet tall. Sara stands on a chair to see out the window. "Mommy, look at the corn now!" It waves. It shimmers and sways in the cool spring air.

And then one day on a walk I stop at the edge of the field. I can hear the bugs within the rows and the breeze rustling the leaves. Tassels are forming, and slim immature ears protrude out here and there. But something is wrong. I step closer. While most of the corn plants are symmetrical and uniform, I see several that are not the same size. Some look like tiny seedlings compared with the others, but I remember they were all planted the same day. This bothers me. Will they be ready in time? Why did they come up so late?

Then I notice that many seeds have grown in the path of the giant tractor tires, where they will surely be trampled later. Some are in the ditch and near the road and away from the fertile growing area. A few have misshapen stalks and look so out of place. So different. From my kitchen I can't see the strays and the defective plants, but now close up I see more than expected. And the weeds! Everywhere-strong weeds. Big bully weeds almost as tall as the corn.

Add to this the gaps and spaces where there are no stalks at all. Inconsistencies and holes in the endless stretch of green. Did the farmer's machine skip planting the seed, or did a bird snatch it up as it fell? Maybe the water didn't reach it in time, or a greedy mouse ran off with it in the moonlight. This isn't good. From our yard everything looks peaceful and serene. But up close there seem to be many problems.

I'm still worried a month later when the heat really hits the valley. I can't even remember the chilly, foggy mornings. It's so hot. Our little garden in the back is doing great as long as we water it. But the farmer must have forgotten the corn. Not a sign anywhere of an irrigation system. Has he abandoned my field?

Then one morning I see the water-slowly, quietly stealing down the rows at the base of the corn. Soaking, healing, drenching the thirsty roots. I'm so relieved. He didn't forget. In fact, he stops by later that day with a shovel and walks around for almost an hour. He checks the rows, digging here and there. He cleans out a pile of leaves that was blocking the flow. He wipes the sweat off his face before he gets back into the pickup.

And then I understand. Suddenly it's all clear. I'm a little green corn plant standing bravely. My feet are soaking up the sweet blessings the Lord waters down on me. My very life is in the hands of a genuinely capable and attentive Farmer. He knows my every need and the needs of each one around me. Just like the biblical application of the planting and harvest that I'd heard so many times before-this time it's just outside my kitchen and speaks clearly to my soul. The church is in good hands. Not forgotten. Never abandoned. Never left alone. Sure, there are weeds. How many rumors have I spread? How many issues did I push my opinion on?

Sure, there are needs and problems. Kindergarten, for instance, had been pulling double duty for the little people, as there was no one willing to teach cradle roll this year. As a coleader I felt overloaded and resentful. Then someone noticed the gap and jumped in wholeheartedly. I watch the water pouring down the rows.

Just when I can't figure out why the church seems to attract so many unique and challenging people, I meet someone who has so much love that they can't contain it all. It spills all over me and makes me want to try again. And I experience joy. I look into the mirror and realize instantly I'm not as perfect as I think I am. And that I shouldn't judge anyone besides me. It doesn't matter if we're all in different places on our spiritual journey. We really need to look at the situation with God's eyes. Stepping back and not being up so close, critically comparing one another.

The gaps reminded me so painfully of people I knew who no longer fellowshipped with us. I could see their faces and I missed them. Some had moved away or died, but others were gone because of a sharp comment about their diet, clothing, or lifestyle. Or a bitter remark whispered and carried from ear to ear. Some, I knew, had never really connected to a small group or made a deep lasting friendship. No support system. Gaps. Spaces, holes, in the relationship. Corn could be replaced, I thought. But could people? What part had I played in all this?

Covering my sad despair came peace and the answer: I could start over. Each day was like a spring morning-a new chance to make a difference. To be real. To work toward unity. The Farmer knows the field. He holds each identity close. He notes the point of departure and can guide each fragile heart back in His own time.

Viewed from my kitchen window, the cornfield flows and sways in one fluid motion, united and beautiful now in the summer sunshine. All the rows are straight and true, and the plants-well! Look at them! It's "my field," green and growing. I'm so blessed to be a part of this. Harvest is coming. I can't wait to watch. The Farmer is taking care of everything.

"He who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, He who keeps Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep" (Ps. 121:3, 4, NKJV).

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A musician and homemaker, Kimberly A. Miles enjoys life in central California.