My parents' Salvation Army work was rather hectic. Take aside the timbrels and the tubas, the Red Shield Appeals, knocking on doors, and moving every few years, as mum and dad gave themselves to the work; there were also the unique experiences that my parents gave me: the drunk who spent a few nights sleeping in our garage sobering up, the family from overseas who had experienced trauma and were staying with us, and the skinhead having Sunday lunch with us for his birthday, as well as the countless prison girls that came and went from our home. 