"Oh the Salvation Army...." a crisp £10 note comes out of a designer wallet. A well-dressed, well-spoken city gent walks away, over his shoulder he smiles "you guys helped my mum when she was at her lowest – thanks....".
No time to ask so I wonder when and where? An Army Detox perhaps. My mind settles on the 4-8 men and women that come each week to worship with us when on their two week detox. It was Darren’s last week on Sunday. I re-run the scene in my mind. "I'll need your prayers if I am going to get through my re-hab, will you pray with me" Darren whispers after the meeting. I look at this tall skinhead young man, trophies of many a fight etched on his face. Scars of rejection in the stories behind the eyes never told. I remember his original hostility the week before. "No problem!" I smile. He smiles too.