There are no atheists in a situation like that!

When my parachute ripped and I fell thou­sands of feet to earth, you'd better believe I was crying out to God — you don't get many atheists in a situation like that! And maybe my prayers were answered because the surgeon later said I came 'within a whisker' of total paralysis.       

       Eighteen months later, as I stood on top of Everest mesmer­ised by the incredible curvature of the earth from the top of the world's highest mountain, it was just natural to feel, 'Wow, God, you made all this?' I guess that is worship. And what a privilege to climb mountains with the One who made them.
       My Christian faith has so often been a quiet backbone to our life as a family and through my work. 

      When I took President Obama into the Alaskan wilderness for an episode of Running Wild, it was a special moment to finish the adventure by praying together. Out in the wild you discover pretty quickly that even the most famous, extraordinary people are asking the same questions and looking for the same things in life as all the rest of us. 

       It was another president — Abraham Lincoln — who once confessed, 'I have been driven to my knees many times by the overwhelming conviction that I had no place else to go.' Smart and humble man.


Bear Grylls

Call the Midwife I.

William Booth Memorial Training College - London

Margaret Watson 

College Brigade 

1972

A soldier of Christ, still in the fight. 

Flying  Solo 1971

O.K. not exactly flying. I was on a bus, one of the wonderful red Route Masters heading for Dalston Junction. Crawling along if truth be told. But we got there eventually – me and my bag. My first ever solo home delivery awaited. All I had was a name and an address and the contents of my bag. That and a few months training. 
The address was on the very edge of our district so I hadn’t been there before. It turned out to be a maisonette in a newish block, probably built on a plot where a German bomb had removed the previous building. Dalston wasn’t yet the trendy area it was going to become. The block stood alone among derelict industrial units, a guard dog was tied to the gate and there was a stale smell from some broken sewer nearby. But someone had planted a rose bush and the nets at the window hadn’t yet acquired the usual grey look. 
The lady was beautiful in a slightly faded way, with dark hair and huge eyes in a Spanish dancer sort of appearance, enhanced by the large hooped earrings she wore. Not young. She already had eight children . 45 or so, she was a bit vague, so probably even older. The children who still lived at home peered round her skirts. She grabbed her handbag and pulled out her purse. ‘Off you go Josie. Nurse is here now. Get this lot to school and we’ll have fish and chips tonight. You can get them on the way home – but don‘t pick holes in the paper and eat them in the street.’ 
The children disappeared within minutes after the usual ‘Can’t find my shoe!.’ and we got on with the job. Her name was Carmen – so the Spanish theme persisted. She hadn’t booked a delivery, or been to antenatal clinics or classes, because I think she knew that , at her age, and with blood pressure problems, a hospital delivery would be advised, or even insisted on. But then who would look after all those children? Josie was only about 12 and she didn’t look too bright, and in those days a baby meant ten days in hospital. 
‘I knew I was ready so I phoned.’ As far as Carmen was concerned that was all that was necessary. And after eight previous births she had everything required. A brand new pram blocked the hall. ‘I treated myself.’ The boys used the other one to bring home the coal from the railway tracks.’ 
Things progressed quite quickly. If all my home deliveries were going to be like this it would a doddle ( They weren’t, but that is a whole book full of other stories. ). After only two hours since the phone call James Conrad Tafferty arrived in a rush. He was a good size with lots of dark hair and a loud yell It was still only just after ten a.m. I tidied up, parcelled up the afterbirth , made and drank tea and said ‘I’ll be back about 2 30.’ And I was out of the door and heading for the bus stop. 
There was a clinic to attend , but well before three I returned. The children presumably were still at school. Carmen was drowzing on the bed with baby tucked up close . There would be no problems with getting him to take a feed. 
I hadn’t been in the house more than a few minutes when I aware that there was someone else in the next room. Just then the bedroom door opened and a young man, a boy really, about 15 , entered. He stripped off his shirt, then his trousers and he climbed into the bed. It seemed only seconds later and he was snoring.
‘Who is that?’ I asked quite shocked. 
‘Oh, don’t worry about him. It’s the baby’s father. He’s just finished his stint at the market. He bought home some lovely bananas.

MARGARET WATSON 
Former SA Officer
Served in Pakistan and the UK

Call the Midwife II

Changing times? 
Someone asked me today if conditions in the East End of London had changed much since the days of William Booth. Well I haven’t been back for many years , and I’m not quite old enough to have lived in the 19th century, although I do know some of it has become quite gentrified with chic boutiques and penthouse apartments ( you can hardly still call them flats ) going for many million. 
That hadn’t happened in the early 1970’s when I was a midwife there. You could still buy live chickens in the market , and they’ d cut off its head for you, tossing the loose head to the cobbles, but the stall was right in front of Tesco’s. There had been other changes of course – we had antibiotics and electric lights, but some of those lights still depended upon someone having a sixpence for the meter. I kept a supply of coins for such occasions, and a torch and matches just in case. 
Hot water was harder to find than you might think. I delivered one baby in a fifth floor, one room flat where a brocaded double bed filled most of the room. I got out my kit while a very small toddler looked on. The only water supply was a cold tap in the basement. The toilet a floor higher, but shared by far too many people. The immediate problem though was that this woman was terrified and sobbing. Her cousin had just had triplets only a few weeks earlier, two tiny boys and their bossy older sister. I always wondered how they turned out. 
But now this lady, Turkish, we were getting a lot from that part of the world. Jewish families had moved further north and were being replaced by migrants from other places. The West Indians had come a few years earlier, but now we were getting Turks, Iranians, a Bolivian family , Brazilian married to a Spaniard without knowing anything of each other’s mother tongue, those with no English at all whose had to be translated – often by small children. There were more, all finding homes in our patch.
Fatima Ahmet was really, really scared that she too was going to have triplets . ‘My belly very big. It runs in families. I have heard.’ Nowadays she would have had a scan at 12 weeks to reassure her , but they were still very new in those days. Most doctors were unlikely ever to have seen one, let alone be able to interpret the results with any assurance. The Mother’s Hospital where I was based didn’t have either a scanner or someone who knew how to operate one. I would, several times a week, have to ring up the nearest scanning department , after a morning’s antenatal clinic. But it would take an age to get someone to answer the telephone as they were too busy with the scanner – several rooms away from the telephone. They didn’t seem to have a receptionist, or if they did she was away at her lunch break. I worked out one week I spent three and a half hours trying to get a response for your two ladies. All three and a half hours were my lunch hour. 
This lady, not surprisingly, had never had a scan. For one thing she had only ever been to booking clinic soon after she realised she was pregnant. We didn’t see her again until her neighbour phoned to say she was in labour. This was more common than you would think. Husbands changed jobs and people moved frequently. Besides she’d had her first child at home in Turkey with just her grandmother to help. That was O.K. so she’d manage this time too, until she panicked, I could understand her thinking , even if I didn’t agree with all of it. The clinic nurse might want blood checks, or find something wrong – some reason to bring her into hospital. And it was five flights down and then a long walk to the bus, and she’d have to change buses once she got to Stoke Newington – all to be told everything was fine. And there were still the five flights to climb when she got home with toddler and the week’s shopping, all on a rainy day. 
I reassured her about the rarity of triplets and let her hands follow mine as I examined her so she could feel one baby’s head and one baby’s spine. A big baby, so no room for any others. I never did deliver that baby. Nothing much happened while I was with her , and eventually a colleague relieved me.  
I did however see Fatima Akram in the post-natal clinic. She wanted a coil fitted, but this was a different woman to the one I had met a few weeks earlier. She was s relaxed and happy, proud of her beautiful son, with his thick black hair and curling eyelashes. I was just bending over to admire them when we were interrupted . The ‘big sister’, aged two by now , wanted her lunch. She fished in her mother’s dress front, and pulled out a huge breast , the nipple dripping with milk.. ‘It’s OK ‘ said her mom .I’ve got two of them.’, and she opened her dress further and placed number one son on her other breast. 
Why did she have a home delivery? Because that is what she wanted would be the easy answer. It was normal in her community. Also when the phone call comes it isn’t the time to discuss the matter. Yes, her home was unsuitable. Yes, her facilities were inadequate. Yes, there wasn’t room even for two people , let alone four, but that wasn’t going to change in the immediate future. This baby would be coming home to that crowded room. Things were as clean as she could manage. At least this way she had a properly trained midwife at hand, who could if necessary call an ambulance and arrange for that hospital admission. 
If a home birth had been refused, what would have happened? She might well have tried to go it alone, or with her elderly neighbour as her only support. Her husband would be out with his mates or at work. Births were little to do with men in those days. Even though it was permitted at the hospital, very few men actually came into the room while their wives gave birth, preferring to pace the corridor outside. So somethings have changed.

A soldier of Christ, still in the fight. 


MARGARET WATSON
Priest. at The Old Catholic Apostolic Church
Former SA Officer

ISB Prelude sur Lavenham

1929 The Salvation Army High Council

This act of kindness will make you cry. Must watch!

Whitechapel was ‘home’and I liked it. 1991

tag

A New World 

WHITECHAPEL 1865

The van seemed to be backing down a slope and then it halted. Voices outside, men’s voices, many of them , but all I could see was a tiny slit of sunlight round the door frame. We’d been travelling for hours, me in the back balanced on a box, and surrounded by my worldly goods such as they were. 

The doors opened and I faced a large man, face with several days of stubble and grey hair straggling past, well past, his shoulders. He grinned.

‘Come on lady. Let’s get you out of there. There’s strawberries for tea.’ 

‘Tea’ was in large mugs, several with interesting chips, rather than the dainty tea cups I was used to, but it tasted great and the strawberries might have been rejects from the market, but we didn’t care. I had arrived. 

Above me the shiny new Booth House , opened by the queen not long before and , across the yard , towering grim heights of Victoria Homes. 

My bit was tucked in, just in front of the grim façade. A corridor of rooms designated as the Alcoholic and Drug Rehabilitation Unit, even if, in those days, we knew relatively little about dealing with either - at least we were trying. At one end my accommodation – the smallest dwelling I would ever occupy. A bedroom just big enough to take my bed and a squeeze past, a sitting room where two were a crowd, and a tiny kitchen, just wide enough to hold a Baby Belling,. Turn round and you were in a shower room and toilet. But however small, I was glad to get out of that van. 

I was in the strange position of being neither staff nor client. I was about to begin my training as a midwife, but as a qualified nurse, my presence in the unit meant that scheduled drugs needed could be kept on the premises. 

My midwifery training course wouldn’t begin for another three days. Time for me to get used to my surroundings. William Booth knew that men were unlikely to listen to the gospel while they had holes in their shoes, nowhere to sleep, and empty bellies. Victoria Homes had been built as a result. It accommodated about 600 men if my memory is correct, sleeping in long dormitories with very little space between the beds. It was awful to my eyes. Imagine trying to sleep with dozens of other men, snoring, screaming at night mares, delirium tremens and all the rest. But these men had been in the forces and it was warm and dry. Many actually said they preferred it to the shiny new building with its single room accommodation, something they weren’t used to, and didn’t want to get used to either. It was what they were used to.

But the new place was full too, with an every changing population, though some stayed for years. And then there were the others. The folk who slept in the deserted graveyard nearby. We could see their fires and night, and hear the fights, though in the day time it seemed deserted unless you looked very closely and saw a body lying flat in the long grass between the tombs, waiting until the alcohol wore off the its owner would rise once more in search of fresh supplies. 

Over the next weeks and months I listened to many stories. The men seemed to adopt me as a younger sister cum agony aunt. If I meet homeless people these days younger faces predominate, but in those days almost all the men had been to war – whether the Great War, the Second World War or Korea, or even some other long forgotten conflict. It didn’t matter. The result had been the same. They had returned home to be rejected . Someone else was sleeping in their bed. Or perhaps the house didn’t exist any more and no one knew what had happened to the occupants. Or they had just moved, and , with poor literacy rates, no one had written. I had many relatives who went to war, all seven of my uncles, but they came home to loving wives and sweethearts – not these men. And so had begun broken lives which had somehow collected, like debris blown by the wind, along the Whitechapel Road. 

Every fortnight or so a doctor visited – these men were not likely to register with a GP and so he came to them. On Sundays there were services in a dusty hall with a slightly out of tune piano and a very indifferent pianist. A mini bus would ferry some to nearby army citadels, but most didn’t go anywhere. 

On Tuesday morning I led sharing sessions. No one had to come and no one had to share, but many did. There were exceptions to the ‘I came home and’ stories. There was the prof who taught history at a local university. He could be fine for months and then out would come his purple shirt and he would be off on a bender which could last for weeks. He didn’t know why that shirt was such a trigger, but he wouldn’t get rid of it, determined that one day everything would be o k., and in the meantime we always found room for him. There was also Mike , a somewhat younger man than our average. Tall and much too thin, he had a ready smile and a gentle voice,. He was kind and made the perfect cuppa just when it was needed. He was qualified as a printer and was willing to teach others his trade, this being long before the automation of the newspaper industry and its move to Wapping. He was a husband and father, a son and an uncle, and somewhere out there his family were waiting for him. But he was also the only one I was physically scared of - when he thought his drugs weren’t going to be available doors would be smashed, chairs thrown, windows broken , even the reinforced ones, and just once he tried to strangle me to get the keys. 

It wasn’t a quiet place. You could hear the traffic whizzing by on the Whitechapel road, unaware of the lives existing so close to its kerbs. There was a faulty alarm which went off regularly and continued for hours, always beginning at three a.m. We were close to Middlesex Street , or Petticoat lane as it was better known. On market days barrows would begin to roll across the cobbles in the lane behind my bed head at an hour long before my usual getting up time. We were only yards for the London Hospital and ambulances wailed past at all hours. 

I had only visited London on two occasions before my arrival in Whitechapel. Then it had been the tourist sights. The statue of Boudicca, a quick tour of Westminster Abbey, a visit to the Stranger’s Gallery in the House of Commons, a walk along the Thames by lamplight in the evening. The theatres and museums were still there of course – the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square and all the rest. Carnaby Street and Kensington High Street were only a bus ride away. he Tower of London was only a short walk from my flat

But then and there the East End and its people were so much more interesting. If I came out of the front door to my right was where John Wesley had felt ‘strangely warmed.’ To my left, just past the Mission to the Jews, was the Beggar’s Bush, by then the unofficial headquarters of the Kray Gang, but outside which a relatively young William Booth had been invited to preach more than a hundred years earlier.

I was new to the Army, only having joined some three months before. I was new to Christianity, at least as a believer, only three years old, despite having gone to church all my life. 

I was also ‘home’and I liked it.
Margaret Watson
Former SA Officer UK

Jesus recruited everyone to be involved in His mission

To be a disciple of a rabbi in a Jewish system, you had to be the best of the best. You had to jump through a lot of hoops for a temple rabbi to invite you to “follow me.”

It’s interesting that when Jesus started his ministry, he changed the reality of disciple making. He shifted the requirement from being about moral motivation, to himself being the motivation.

He empowered people who didn’t fit the established temple/disciple mould. He connected with “unclean people,” those whom Jewish society wouldn’t have allowed to get anywhere near the temple to worship God. For example, the tax collector, Matthew, would not have made the cut because his profession and the port where he collected taxes were a disgrace to the Jews.

Jesus called the disgraced Matthew to “follow me.” “Follow me” is what a rabbi says to the best of the best.

So, when Jesus called the worst of the worst to follow him, he sent a strong message to the Jewish religious establishment that the mission had shifted. It was now not only for the Jews, but for everyone. This not only showed Matthew how special he was to God, but even more radical, that he could be a respected missionary of the gospel and socially reconciled because of Jesus.

Jesus opened up the requirements for what it meant to be a disciple.

He simply saved and then sent, simplifying discipleship to what he originally intended.

Why did he do this? I believe it was for intentional missional strategy. He made this change because God’s answer to problem solving is involving all kinds of people.

Jesus recruited people who spoke the cultural language of those around them and didn’t let anything get in the way of his movement. He started a passionate and internally motivated kingdom movement, got rid of the movement blockers, and empowered people to share the good news that the Trinity would restore everything.

He recruited everyone to be involved in his mission without discrimination. In a Salvation Army context, the idea of becoming a disciple is similar to becoming a soldier. To become a Salvation Army soldier, you have to do soldiership classes, promise to live a high and moral life where you’re not going to drink alcohol and smoke, etc.

Here’s the problem: Jesus would make a great adherent. Soldiership not only excludes Jesus but it also excludes the majority of people within our society who don’t wish to make these lifestyle promises. Many people will say, “What’s the problem? That’s why we have adherency, which caters to people who don’t want a ‘higher calling.’ ”

However, this higher calling creates a two-tier exclusiveness, which Jesus opposed, and allows for unbiblical power and segregation problems within community.

The adherents in my ministry setting are as equally passionate and active followers of Jesus as our soldiers, except the adherents can’t become officers because they are not soldiers. They would argue that they are genuine soldiers because they have encountered Jesus, and he has transformed their lives to the point where they now partner in the mission of God.

Cpt Peter Hobbs (centre) asks whether we have made soldiership too exclusive

So, I ask the question, is soldiership as it exists today similar to temple discipleship in Jesus’ day? A movement blocker? If so, how do we fix this?

Well, the answer is to be like Jesus: remove the blockage and model a different reality. Soldiership would then be something close to: Anyone who follows Jesus and acknowledges his presence in their life and who is part of our Salvation Army family on mission together is a soldier in The Salvation Army.

The benefit of empowering all people into a soldiership journey with Jesus like this is that it creates an environment of equality without condemnation, simplifying soldiership to what Jesus originally intended.

When soldiers are raised by being on mission with Jesus, we will also see a radical increase in spiritually mature apostolic and prophetic leaders in The Salvation Army—the type of leaders who pioneer movements.

I’m aware this is a controversial topic within The Salvation Army, but no more controversial than it was for Jesus when he introduced it to Judaism 2,000 years ago.

Imagine existing volunteers as partners in the mission. And those faithful adherent elders and leaders at our centres who have never been able to be soldiers because of a few lifestyle choices, now being seen as mainstream missionaries in The Salvation Army. Not only mainstream missionaries, but our future leaders and officers.

If ever the world needed a movement of soldiers it is now. The only requirement is Jesus, and he is enough. 

Captain Peter Hobbs is a corps officer at Bellarine Peninsula in the Australia Territory.

Reprinted from others Magazine (Australia).

(Translation: Sven Ljungholm)

A corps was opened in Moscow in 1918 and there I discovered the Army

While (stationed) at the International training college I was asked by the General to represent the Army at various conferences; one of the most interesting was the Conference of European Churches that met in the autumn of 1964. The late Commissioner Tor Wahlström, then leader in Denmark, accompanied me. The event was unique because of the unusual circumstances under which we met. Originally it was intended to hold a conference in the Danish town of Aarhus, but as the German Democratic Republic would not permit their citizens to enter territories or states belonging to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization a new strategy had to be devised that would make it possible for East German Christians to attend. Finally it was decided to charter the M.S. Bornholm and station it in the Kattegat in neutral waters beyond the jurisdiction of any NATO nation.

We boarded the Bornholm at Copenhagen harbour and sailed toward the Swedish coast. As Sweden is not a NATO country, East Germans could travel there quite freely. We dropped anchor some miles from Malmö and waited until dusk deepened. Before long a tugboat was observed approaching from the east. As she drew alongside, the searchlights were turned on and a rope ladder was let down over the side of the ship. We stood and cheered as eight Christian leaders from East Germany climbed on deck, some of them weeping openly.

Later that evening, at our first meal on shipboard, I shared a table with two U.S.S.R. delegates, an elderly bearded pastor and a young woman, both fluent in English. The pastor told me he entered the ministry of his evangelical church before the October 1917 Bolshevik revolution, and had been well acquainted with Commissioner Karl Larsson, a Swedish Salvationist who had close links with the Army (SA) in Russia prior to and for some time after the revolution. In point of fact, as early as 1913 Larsson introduced the Army to Russia – the Army’s official history says “almost by holy subterfuge!”

Taking advantage of a Hygiene Exhibition in Saint Petersburg (now Leningrad) he presented a Salvation Army display in the Finnish Pavilion. It created considerable interest, and from such a small beginning Salvationism took root and grew slowly but steadily until by 1917 North Russia was recognized as a full-fledged SA Territory. 

A corps was opened in Moscow, (in 1918) and there my new acquaintance met Larsson and discovered The Army with its flags, happy singing and fervent proclamation of the gospel.[1]

The Moscow corps was opened in October 1918 by my grandparents and no doubt the Gospel heard was that shared by the corps officers, Adjutant Gerda and Otto Ljungholm, in their broken Russian but “fervent proclamation”, along with others. See page 140-41: “Whenever I walk by that old building where Salvationists held their Moscow meetings those long years ago,” he told me, “I invariably pause for a moment of thanksgiving to the Lord, for it was there I learned to know him better and to love him more deeply.”

He told me that nearly a hundred songs from the Salvation Army songbook are to be found in his Church’s hymnary, including the Founder’s  “O Boundless Salvation.”[2]

General Clarence Wiseman

---

[1]Wiseman, Clarence, A Burning in my Bones, p. 140

Who knew then, but God! BBC TV1999 (pt1)

(I came across this broadcast quite by accident this morning, and felt compelled to share its significance)

Two decades ago, and at many other times, The Salvation Army hosted the BBC broadcasts, Songs of Salvation. This is part one of three aired in  1999, and includes an interview with a Salvationist Cadet from South Africa, Kathleen Versfeld. She and husband Allister were professionals in  their respective secular fields but sensed the call of God to enter a new and challenging assignment; SA Officership.

Now, 20 years later the Versfelds are the Mission Development Officers at the Army's new mission and occupational therapy centre at Strawberry Field. 

I had the privilege, with 2 psychologists friends, (former SA officers) Jeni and Fred  Gregory visiting from the USA, and my wife (SA Major) Glad, to tour the impressive holistic, state-of-the-art facility two days ago. 

 The plans for this former John Lennon afternoon 'escape' will be shared in 2 weeks, and be featured on this blog site, and widely through various other media outlets.

Sven  Ljungholm

From the book:

Return to Battle in Russia and Beyond - Volume II

(One of the most quoted and plagiarised stories of Russian Salvation Army pioneer history - A private experience from our Russian pioneer days in Leningrad; (quoted and plagiarised by SA Commissioners to Captains and those on the Christian speaking circuit)

CHAPTER 11

The General from Yalta

From the book:

Return to Battle in Russia and Beyond - 

Volume II

(One of the most quoted and plagiarised stories of Russian Salvation Army pioneer history - A private experience from our Russian pioneer days in Leningrad; (quoted and plagiarised by SA Commissioners to Captains and those on the Christian speaking circuit)

CHAPTER 11
The General from Yalta
From; THE BATTLEFRONT periodical; SA Canada

CAPTAIN SVEN·ERIK LJUNGHOLM, serving in Russia, discovers a remarkable 'Salvationist' leader who has maintained 'the Army' in spite of imprisonment and proscription. 
'THE GENERAL is on the line and wants to speak with you," said the office secretary. I took the receiver and after a moment of anxious reflection answered, "Yes, General Burrows, Captain Ljungholm speaking, and good morning from all of us here in Leningrad." (General Burrows had departed Leningrad a few days earlier following the official re-opening of the Army's work in Russia) However, instead of General Burrows' voice, a man replied in Russian: "Kapitan, this is General Vladimir Mikhailovich, Armeija Spasenja, Yalta, Ukraine." At first, I thought it some hoax, but after a few minutes of conversation, I realized that this was indeed a "general" in every sense of the word, even if self-appointed and assuming command in an area made famous for meetings conducted by heads of state rather than by The Salvation Army!
As the "general" spoke he shared not only his experience as a Salvation Army soldier, sworn in at the (Petrograd - Leningrad) St. Petersburg VII Corps in 1918 but also a hitherto unknown segment of our SA history. He had been arrested and exiled for 20 years to Siberia due to his Salvation Army activities during the Second World War. My interest and admiration piqued, and needing a "day away," my wife and I decided to visit this unknown hero. As my schedule was quite demanding I opted for a flight the next week as I would be in the south of Russia in Volgograd researching an outbreak of HIV in a children's hospital with 238 toddlers infected. (Kathie and our translator Varja, share a 4 berth cabin with other travelers, on the 18-hour overnight journey to Crimea.) On my arrival at the Volgograd airport in the early evening the same day I was not surprised to learn, after a delay of several hours, that my flight was delayed until "tomorrow sometime, however, if you wait until this afternoon, we may get you on yesterday's flight." On eventually landing at Yalta's regional airport in Simferopol some hours later and walking towards the crowded outdoor luggage claim area I spied the authoritative imposing figure of a man who could be no one but the "general" himself.
It was an emotional and gripping moment for me, not only to meet the living proof of the adage that "old soldiers never die," but also to shake the hand of a man who had served in St. Petersburg at the side of Adjutant and Mrs. Otto Ljungholm, my grandparents.  
PHOTO
General Eva Burrows presents the Order of the Founder to Vladimir Mikhailovich
Accompanying the "general" was his driver and "adjutant" of the last 40 years. The 1-1/2 hour car journey to the "general's" headquarters was made considerably longer due to the frequent stops on the mountainous road to refill the boiling radiator. Once in Yalta, it was straight to "headquarters," a portion of the "general's" ramshackle home high on the hillside overlooking the Black Sea and Yalta. He led us out on the veranda and there stretched himself out as his hand went into the branches of the tree and plucked lose some fresh figs for my wife and me. "It's a biblical fruit, and good for you," insisted the "general," as he tossed us each our very first fresh fig.
Then it was to the "office" for the official welcome. He presented us to his wife, and handed to us his homemade but neatly printed SA business card. After a few moments of discussion the phone rang, and neither my wife nor I was surprised that the natural telephone greeting was, "The Salvation Army, the General speaking"!
On returning to the table he shared that part of his story his wife allows, the part that is not "too painful to tell or to listen to.
VLADIMIR SERVED 20 years of his sentence before being released in 1964. All Salvation Army materials, including the seven trumpets, were confiscated in 1945. When questioned about his Siberian lockup, Vladimir's wife steps in and says, "We never talk about those days - the memories are too painful!" But the "general" happily recalls the many who swore their allegiance to his "Salvation Army" in 1943 and 1944. And he proudly displays a photo of those who came through the war unscathed. Many, of course, did not.
On his release from prison, Vladimir returned to the Crimea and joined again with the "adjutant" to begin again his effort to establish The Salvation Army. Government regulations forbade the forming of new sects and religions, but Vladimir never surrendered his God-inspired vision. And two years ago, at the earliest possible moment when the religious freedom act was put into force, the "general" went about establishing a new rank, discipline, and social service program.
Izvestia, Russia's second-largest newspaper, carried a story of the Army's intent to re-establish work in Leningrad within the year. Vladimir, not to be outdone, determined to re-establish The Army within the week and, to get a proper start, he placed a quarter-page ad in the local Yalta paper announcing The Army's plan of action. "If you need food, clothing, or a place to stay, come to my house," read the ad. People came, put up their style of pup tents scattered on the General's sloping lawn, and set up an outdoor ramshackle wood-fired kitchen and eatery. And they are still coming. Others phone or write, seeking help from this latter-day William Booth.
The day the "perestroika" decree allowed for new religious freedom in Russia, the "general" began his recruitment campaign. Cognizant that his newly-established "Army" needed Christian workers to carry out his commands, the sprightly 85-year-old leader quickly set about recruiting and ‘enrolling’ his soldiers.
As we sat at the "general's" table eagerly studying the many documents detailing Vladimir's religious adventures, there was a knock at the door and in came Alexi who greeted the "general" by his rank before being introduced to us as a salvation soldier of the Yalta branch. Although it was late, two more visitors soon came, both husband and wife being ‘soldiers’.
The "adjutant," sensing that we needed some fresh air suggested a walk along the seaside. As we walked the narrow streets, we were not surprised to hear again and again the greeting, "Good evening, General"! Today his army numbers in the high teens and among them are many professional people, including the secretary of the Yalta Bible Society.
Army matters in St. Petersburg demanded our departure from Yalta and pre-empted further delving into the activities of this colorful soldier of Jesus Christ. Time barely allowed me to note down the "general's" instructions: "Captain, I need 25 uniforms and caps immediately, and for the coming winter I need 1000 blankets for the elderly as well as foodstuffs, Christmas toys and Bibles - yes, send me 1,000 Bibles for distribution right away. Now, how long is that going to take you, Captain?" I muttered, 'The uniforms will be a problem, I'll have to inform the other General, but we'll be back before winter with your other needs." 
As we left the hillside where the "general" makes his command headquarters, dozens of bodily forms could be seen in the shadows of that early morning hour, each a witness to the Salvationist spirit that opened Vladimir's heart to Christ many years ago, and his home to 40 homeless men for the past two years.
On arriving back in St. Petersburg I suppose I should not have been surprised that during my absence, and unknown to anyone else, thousands of new blankets were already scheduled to be shipped to us, donated by a European airline, and new toys were being collected by a Swedish church, and Bibles - yes, several thousands of Bibles - were waiting to be picked up in Moscow. No, I should not be surprised, as God is rewarding the faith of our "general."
Now, each time the office telephone rings, I am a little reluctant to answer for fear it will be "general" Vladimir demanding, "Captain, it's been three days since you left here, why haven't my supplies been delivered yet?" I'll assure him that after his wait of 70 years to reestablish his army, he is high on my list of priorities, directly below my allegiance to the other General!
Sven Ljungholm
KathIe, Sven & General Eva Burrows


; THE BATTLEFRONT periodical; SA Canada

CAPTAIN SVEN·ERIK LJUNGHOLM, serving in Russia, discovers a remarkable 'Salvationist' leader who has maintained 'the Army' in spite of imprisonment and proscription. 

     'THE GENERAL is on the line and wants to speak to you," said the office secretary. I took the receiver and after a moment of anxious reflection answered, "Yes, General Burrows, Captain Ljungholm speaking, and a good morning from all of us here in Leningrad." (General Burrows had departed Leningrad a few days earlier following the re-opening of the work in Russia) However, instead of General Burrows' voice a man replied in Russian: "Kapitan, this is General Vladimir Mikhailovich, Armeija Spasenja, Yalta, Ukraine." At first I thought it some hoax, but after a few minutes of conversation I realized that this was indeed a "general" in every sense of the word, even if self-appointed and assuming command in an area made famous for meetings conducted by heads of state rather than by The Salvation Army!

     As the "general" spoke he shared not only his experience as a Salvation Army soldier, sworn in at the St. Petersburg VII Corps in 1918, but also a hitherto unknown segment of our history. He had been arrested and exiled for 20 years in Siberia due to his Salvation Army activities during the Second World War. My interest and admiration piqued, and needing a "day away," my wife and I decided to visit this unknown hero. As my schedule was quite demanding I opted for a flight the next week as I would be in the south of Russia in Volgograd researching an outbreak of HIV in a childrens hospital with 238 toddlers infected. On arrival at the Volgograd airport I was not totally surprised to learn, after a delay of several hours, that my flight was delayed until "tomorrow sometime, however, if you wait until this afternoon, we may get you on yesterday's flight." On eventually landing at Yalta's regional airport in Semfiropol and walking towards the crowded outdoor luggage claim area I spied the authoritative imposing figure of a man who could be no one but the "general" himself.

     It was an emotional and gripping moment for me, not only to meet the living proof of the adage that "old soldiers never die," but also to shake the hand of a man who had served in St. Petersburg at the side of Adjutant and Mrs. Otto Ljungholm, my grandparents.  

     

General Evab  Burrows presents the Order of the Founder to Vladimir Mikhailovich

Accompanying the "general" was his driver and "adjutant" of the last 40 years. The 1-1/2 hour car journey to the "general's" headquarters was made considerably longer due to the frequent stops on the mountainous road to refill the boiling radiator. Once in Yalta it was straight to "headquarters," a portion of the "general's" ramshackle home high on the hillside overlooking the Black Sea and Yalta. He led us out on the veranda and there stretched himself out as his hand went into the branches of the tree and plucked loose some fresh figs for my wife and me. "It's a biblical fruit, and good for you," insisted the "general," as he tossed us each our very first fresh fig.

     Then it was to the "office" for the official welcome. He presented us to his wife, and handed to us his homemade but neatly printed SA business card. After a few moments of discussion the phone rang, and neither my wife nor I was surprised that the natural telephone greeting was, "The Salvation Army, the General speaking"!

     On returning to the table he shared that part of his story his wife allows, the part that is not "too painful to tell or to listen to.

     VLADIMIR SERVED 20 years of his sentence before being released in 1964. All Salvation Army materials, including the seven trumpets, were confiscated in 1945. When questioned about his Siberian lockup, Vladimir's wife steps in and says, "We never talk about those days - the memories are too painful!" But the "general" happily recalls the many who swore their allegiance to his "Salvation Army" in 1943 and 1944. And he proudly displays a photo of those who came through the war unscathed. Many, of course, did not.

     On his release from prison Vladimir returned to the Crimea and joined again with the "adjutant" in order to begin again his effort to establish The Salvation Army. Government regulations forbade the forming of new sects and religions, but Vladimir never surrendered his God-inspired vision. And two years ago, at the earliest possible moment when the religious freedom act was put into force, the "general" went about establishing a new rank, discipline and social service program.

     Izvestia, Russia's second largest newspaper, carried a story of the Army's intent to re-establish work in Leningrad within the year. Vladimir, not to be outdone, determined to re-establish The Army within the week and, in order to get a proper start, he placed a quarter page ad in the local Yalta paper announcing The Army's plan of action. "If you need food, clothing, or a place to stay, come to my house," read the ad. People came, and they are still coming. Others phone or write, seeking help from this latter day William Booth.

     The day the "perestroika" decree allowed for new religious freedom in Russia, the "general" began his recruitment campaign. Cognizant that his newly-established "Army" needed Christian workers in order to carry out his commands, the sprightly 85-year-old leader quickly set about recruiting and ‘enrolling’ his soldiers.

     As we sat at the "general's" table eagerly studying the many documents detailing Vladimir's religious adventures, there was a knock at the door and in came Alexi who greeted the "general" by his rank before being introduced to us as a salvation soldier of the Yalta branch. Although it was late, two more visitors soon came, both husband and wife being ‘soldiers’.

     The "adjutant," sensing that we needed some fresh air suggested a walk along the seaside. As we walked the narrow streets, we were not surprised to hear again and again the greeting, "Good evening, General"! Today his army numbers in the high teens and among them are many professional people, including the secretary of the Yalta Bible Society.

     Army matters in St. Petersburg demanded our departure from Yalta, and pre-empted further delving into the activities of this colorful soldier of Jesus Christ. Time barely allowed me to note down the "general's" instructions: "Captain, I need 25 uniforms and caps immediately, and for the coming winter I need 1000 blankets for the elderly as well as foodstuffs, Christmas toys and Bibles - yes, send me 1,000 Bibles for distribution right away. Now, how long is that going to take you, Captain?" I muttered, 'The uniforms will be a problem, I'll have to inform the other General, but we'll be back before winter with your other needs." 

     As we left the hillside where the "general" makes his command headquarters, dozens of bodily forms could be seen in the shadows of that early morning hour, each a witness to the Salvationist spirit that opened Vladimir's heart to Christ many years ago, and his home to 40 homeless men for the past two years.

     On arriving back in St. Petersburg I suppose I should not have been surprised that during my absence, and unknown to anyone else, thousands of new blankets were already scheduled to be shipped to us, donated by a European airline, and new toys were being collected by a Swedish church, and Bibles - yes, several thousands of Bibles - were waiting to be picked up in Moscow. No, I should not be surprised, as God is rewarding the faith of our "general."

     Now, each time the office telephone rings, I am a little reluctant to answer for fear it will be "general" Vladimir demanding, "Captain, it's been three days since you left here, why haven't my supplies been delivered yet?" I'll assure him that after his wait of 70 years to reestablish his army, he is high on my list of priorities, directly below my allegiance to the other General!

Sven Ljungholm

Kathie, Sven & General Eva Burrows

---

[1]Source unknown