How typical is a Sunday when you find yourself physically embracing a devout Muslim man in the street at the end of a Salvation Army Open Air Service, or walking the streets of Croydon in the pitch black with another Salvationist trying to sort a means of transport for a man worse the wear for drink who wanted to get to another part of London; or listening enraptured to true life stories of dear friends which took in brushes with the Gestapo, a re-opening of ministry and mission in Russia, the beauty of Norway, or gathering with a small huddle of friends in the kitchen at a place of worship long after most people had left, and sharing a special few minutes focusing in on the reality of what it is we are called to do?
That was my Sunday.
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