*The Two Gretels
by Robin Morgan

The two Gretels were exploring the forest.
Hansel was home,
sending up flares.

Sometimes one Gretel got afraid.
She said to the other Gretel,
“I think I’m afraid.”
“Of course we are,” Gretel replied.

Sometimes the other Gretel whispered,
with a shiver,
“You think we should turn back?”
To which her sister Gretel answered,
“We can’t. We forgot the breadcrumbs.”

So, they went forward because
they simply couldn’t imagine the way back.

 

 

I discovered the poem by Robin Morgan at a coffee shop in Cuernavaca, Mexico, where I live and serve as an ELCA missionary. I was sitting with a good friend, flipping through Cries of the Spirit, a book of poetry. When I came across the “The Two Gretels,” I almost fell out of my chair.

“This is it,” I said to my friend. “This is what it’s like to go home.”

 

There's no place like home?
The notion of returning home from international mission service is a paradox. Although missionaries may return to the same physical locations from which they left, they have been so changed by their experiences that they can’t help but see everything through new eyes. This phenomenon is compounded by friends and family who often operate like Hansel by “sending up flares,” expecting them to find their way back to the very same place from which they set out. Often times, neither the returning missionary nor their friends or family recognize that this place no longer exists. This disconnect between Hansel and Gretel, between missionaries and the communities that sent them, makes any attempt to return home precarious, at best.

Gretel moves to a castle
My name is Andrea, and in returning from Global Mission service I became one of the two Gretels. My first returning experience came at age 15 when I spent a week of service in Juarez, Mexico. I helped build a one-room house for a family of five. The day after I got back to Minnesota, my own family of five moved into a much larger house than the one where I grew up. For the first time, I had my own bedroom and it had more square footage than the house we had just finished building in Juarez. My new home felt like an extravagant castle. I cried myself to sleep out of frustration and guilt. I didn’t know how to talk to my parents about my feelings without seeming ungrateful. (Continued on next page.)

* Copyright 1974 by Robin Morgan in her poetry collection Lady of the Beasts (Random House). Reprinted/posted here with permission of the author from Upstairs in the Garden: Poems Selected and New by Robin Morgan (WW Norton, 1999). All rights online and off reserved. Write info@RobinMorgan.us for further information.

 

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As part of our exploration of the issues facing those who are returning home from service, we interviewed military personnel, returning from their deployment.

The Rev. Eric Olsen, a military chaplain serving in the Army, directed me to a reintregration event that helps soldiers and their families adjust once they are home. I asked our correspondent in the Lutheran Office at the UN, the Rev. Malte Lei, to interview soldiers at this reintregration event, held in upstate New York. You’ll hear about the challenges soldiers face and the tips they have for their families and other returning soldiers about transitioning back home.

Listen to three women we interviewed in Café's special podcast.

  Listen now (MP3)  |  Launch podcast in iTunes
 

Faith reflections

Visit the study page for ideas for discussion and further reflection.

Now the LORD said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.’ Genesis 12:1–2

Before I was born, my parents followed in Abram’s footsteps by obeying God’s call to leave the United States, their home. They settled as newlyweds in the Philippines to serve as missionaries. My siblings and I were born and raised in the Philippines, not among my parents’ kindred, but in the land that God had shown them. When we moved back to the United States, I was 13 years old. We moved to Mississippi, a land foreign to all of us.

My parents grew up in the Midwest, where I now choose to live. But I was not shaped by this landscape as they were. My childhood memories are not of sledding down a hill or having Thanksgiving dinner at Grandma’s house. My childhood memories are filled with the sticky-sweet smell of mangoes, and the knowledge that my blonde hair and fair skin gave me absurd power over others. The memories of my adolescence in Gulfport, Mississippi, are tinged with salty air blowing off the Gulf of Mexico and soaked in gumbo. But where am I from? When Dorothy clicked her heels together and said, “There’s no place like home,” in The Wizard of Oz, what she meant was, “There’s only one place like home, and I miss it.” When I say, “There’s no place like home,” it means something altogether different: I genuinely have no geographic place I call home.

A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien . . . Deuteronomy 26:5

The verses that follow this passage in Deuteronomy recount the history of the Israelites moving to Egypt, becoming enslaved there, fleeing Egypt, wandering in the desert, and eventually ending up in the land “flowing with milk and honey.” Through it all—no matter where the people of God were or what happened to them—God never left them. Like immigrants, refugees, and nomads everywhere, I find enormous comfort in knowing that I belong somewhere.

“My people” are our forebears in the faith—and they weren’t always sure where they were from either. They were only certain that God was with them wherever they may be—just as we are certain that God is with us, wherever we may be. As the writer of Psalm 139 puts it, "If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast." (Psalm 139:9–10.) Continued on next page


    

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