Of Wocks and Women

My niece and I were collecting acorns in the driveway last week, scouring the area around the big oak tree in my brother's yard trying to find as many of the little brown "wocks" as we could, then depositing them in the bright plastic pail we'd fished out of the sandbox. This was a task to which nineteen- month-old Adrianna was fully committed, clearly, so I left her to her work, occasionally offering my support by pointing out an as-yet-undiscovered cache that was ripe for the gathering, or by reminding her, when her chubby little hands got too full to hold any more, to make a trip back to the bucket.

I wondered as I watched what attracted her to certain acorns and not to others. She avoided the ones that were smashed or broken, hesitated at the ones that were caked in dirt (but often picked them up anyway, dropped them in the bucket, and then wiped her hands judiciously on her orange pants), and completely bypassed the ubiquitous little cup-shaped caps that littered the ground--these, apparently, were not worthy of her attention or energy. But it wasn't perfection she was after, I know, since even the imperfect nuts would sometimes catch her eye and end up in the pail alongside the pretty, shiny, clean ones. She had a definite idea what she was looking for, this little girl, an idea that even my heartiest encouragement--"Look at that one!" or "Oh! I think I see a good one over there!"--did little to alter. Whatever it was that she was looking for, she'd amble off in dogged pursuit of it, while I laughed quietly, and wondered.

Maybe Adrianna was on to something. Or, more likely: Adrianna was on to something; I'm just not exactly sure what it was. I wish I knew. I wish I could've looked out at that driveway, at the world, through her eyes. Then I might've known, or at least had some inkling, what she was seeing in the "wocks" that she ultimately decided to pick up--and in the ones she left untouched.

It's fortunate for us as humans that our ability to see the world through another person's eyes increases in direct proportion to both the other person's facility with written and spoken language and our own ability to hear and grasp it. Language gives us the capacity to connect, to build community, and, ultimately, to become more fully human.

This issue of Perspectives, like other issues, is something of an exercise in the art of seeing. But what makes it unique is its origin in a talented group of young female writers, pastors, and on-the-ground theologians--women whose hands, feet, faces, and voices represent the hands, feet, faces, and voices of Reformed Christianity in the world today. With the exception of those who contributed reviews and poetry (and who were thus constrained by the function and form of their chosen genre), the contributors each received this assignment: write about something you're passionate about, something you've been wondering about, something you feel uniquely equipped and compelled to share with readers. No specific theme or topic, no explicit focus on what it means to be "young, Reformed, and female"--just individual voices speaking to the realities of their own experiences and perspectives.

The collective result has themes of community, inclusivity (and exclusivity), hospitality, and identity emerging and reemerging throughout. Against this backdrop, other themes, like doubt, lament, and darkness, stand in stark, telling contrast. In ways that are both personal and theoretical, quotidian and prophetic, compelling and debatable, these authors humbly offer their wisdom and invite our consideration as well as our scrutiny. They invite us to consider the world, for a few moments, through their eyes. And who knows? If we look close enough, we just might find a wock or two of our own.