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*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.
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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)
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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.)
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