The hunt for Joy

Joy is elusive... but it's there.

You have to actively seek it.

I am discovering that in the midst of grief over losing Caleb and a never-ending deluge of hardships (like living without hot water for example).

Every day I fight. Fight against the despair - that dark-creeping sadness squeezing every last gut and gizzard.

Every day I chose to find Joy.

I love gardening. This year due to all the hardships, I am not able to have much of a garden of my own. However, this does not mean I must go without a dirt fix. What I decided to do was seek out someone with means to buy all the plants and stuff but unable to physically make it happen. Currently I am doing an entire yard makeover for a senior couple from my church. The yard laid fallow for over a decade. I have a blank slate to go flower-design crazy! I am getting my dirt fix in spite of my circumstances and Joy is there knowing I will wow this couple when they return from vacation in a few weeks.

My poor Nikon D50 wimpered as I ambled by. Heeding its call, I took it out of the case and decided to go shooting. The nuances of taking great pictures gets lost in the age of iPads with build in cameras. Joy comes when I upload pictures to my computer screen, sit back and think... wow! I took that?

Today I will take Kyle to the zoo. I am tired and somewhat grumpy, but I expect to find Joy amid the animals and time with my son.

Life is hard. Joy may be elusive. But it is there.

You just have to put effort into looking for it.

Waiting for him to die

A few weeks ago the vet called. The lump I found on Caleb's leg while grooming him was a very aggressive soft-tissue sarcoma. Given that he is 13  years old, she told us we had a few weeks to a few months left with our beloved fur baby.

John and I brought home the wriggly pup the day after we moved into our house. He fit into the palm of my hand.

Esau, our eldest cat, was amused by this new squeak toy. He swatted it. It squeaked. Hours of entertainment.

Chewed up shoes, carpet (there is still duct tape over that spot), chair legs, underwear, plants...were a regular part of our lives.

Caleb went everywhere with us. Camping. Hiking - he summited several 14ers - cross-country trips to PA, even on an airplane... once.

For a dog, this one sure had more lives than the average cat! When he was a year and a half, he almost did himself in by eating a pair of leather work gloves. Our vet performed emergency surgery in which the dog had less than a 50% chance of surviving. In addition to the gloves, the doctor found a few random cat toys. Caleb recovered to his full self.

One thing Caleb was famous for was his "eating disorder". There was nothing under the sun, he wouldn't try to eat. When he had sleepovers at friend's houses (we went on mission trips or were gone for a few weeks and could not take him) he ate packages of hot chocolate, Dove Dark chocolates, pancake batter and a 5lb bag of dried apricots!

When my parents knew Caleb was coming, they would make sure the lid to the garbage can in the kitchen was secure.

Caleb's desire to eat can be summed up this way: that dog loved cat poop more than I love pizza. Baby gates, booby traps... that dog would find a way to snack on the forbidden.

It's been a few months since he tried.

When Kyle was born, it was a Boy and His Dog all around. Shelties are herders and protective of their sheep. No matter how hard Kyle pulled his tail or poked him in the eye with a wormy finger, the dog didn't react. Oh, I prayed the dog would bite the boy at least once! Just so Kyle'd learn not to hurt the dog. But the dog exercised great patience.

Every day the limping gets worse. He doesn't like to go up and down stairs.

Yesterday our food obsessed beastie turned away from the food bowl. I came home from church to find the cats in the dog food.

Again, today, he is refusing to eat. Laying on his side by the front door where he's been for the past year and a half.

I brought the bowl to him. He lifted his head, his liquid brown eyes gazing deep into mine. He dipped his snoot into the bowl and brought out one kernel, rolled it over his tongue and let if fall to the floor. "For you Mommy, I try to eat for you." He rested his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

When a dog stops eating, it's their way of telling you they are done. That's what the vet told us as well as other dog-parents who have gone down this painful path before us.

John choked back a sob. "I think if he doesn't eat tomorrow, we need to... to... you know... take him."

How do you do it? We prayed we would find Caleb had passed in his sleep. I pray now more than ever that that be the case.

But how do you take your baby in, hand him over and drive home with an empty collar. An empty car?

The vet said we can be with him.

Can I watch the life drain from my baby? Can I bear to look him in the eye, knowing it would be our last look? Our last unspoken exchange of love and trust?

Do I have the strength? It seems odd to run in, hand him over and run out.

I tried and failed miserably at ignoring the reality of Caleb's impending death. I know mortality is 100%. We all die.

I don't want him to suffer. I could not bear that either.

We won't be bringing him home in any fashion. "Hey, see that jar on the coffee table? That's my dog!"

Photos and memories will suffice.

And tears.

Knowing the end is so near is hard.

Now we wait.

Wait for him to die.

Disappointment with or without God.

I've been sitting on this one for a few days. Ever since I read Philip Yancey's Disappointment with God. 

You know. The vulnerability thing. Do I really want to put it out there that I have been disappointed with God?

Like, what will people think? Will I get kicked out of choir?  Or will I get Those Stares. Where people with unblinking gazes bore laser beam holes of judgement into my soul?

This morning I read a blog post by an Anglican rector from British Columbia that took a LOT of guts. He has more at stake than I do. I am still the unknown nobody. He is a published author and pastor! At the beginning of his post he shares how he struggled with publishing his conclusions on some extensive research on yoga.

So. I have no excuse.

From the title and my admission of recent reading you can guess where I've been for the past... oh let's just say looooong time.

Life today is radically different than I imagined it would be when I grabbed that diploma holding tube from the president of Houghton College back in 1994. During those short four years, I had the biggest dream of my life crash and burn by sophomore year. Then there was plan B!

I wrapped my arms around that new dream and with the support of my new department full of amazing profs, I worked my butt off to complete a whole new degree and minor in two years! I zoomed from the bottom of the GPA food chain to the very top! Ah! Success! Goals! Dreams! Hope!

All to crash in a burning heap a few weeks before graduation.

I left Houghton disillusioned. Confused. Angry. I thought God shut one door to open another? How else could I explain that kind of miraculous success? The profs had never seen such a case like me... from flailing failing to soaring and scoring.

Plan C...D...E...F...G... when you run out of the 26 letters there is AA... BB... and so on.

God was coming off more and more like an enemy rather than the Good God of the Bible.

For years I felt betrayed by Him. Heck, I prayed that I would only go down paths paved by His Will. I assumed His Will = Darcie's Amazing Stories of Success.

Thanks to Yancey's book and my first ever episode of Dr. Who, I have a new perspective.

Being human, I wanted... no... demanded an explanation for the mess called my life.

 From God Himself.

I wanted Him to answer to me so I could accept the way things turned out and get on with it.

Or be over it.

Like Job.

Yancey highlights The Wager between God and Satan at the beginning of the book of Job. How Satan bet God that Job's faith would crack under adversity. Satan believed God bribed Job into faith. God and Satan shook hands and the bet was on. We all know how it turns out. Read Job if you are not familiar with it. It is so honest and real.

Anyway, Yancey's point is that we get so focused on our reality. The reality of planet Earth, that we fail to remember there is another reality. The spiritual realm. There's a whole bunch of stuff going on that we can't see. Understand. Or know. But both dimensions are interconnected.

Like in Dr. Who.

Okay, so I put off watching it for fear I would get hooked. Sunday night it was on. And yeah, I was hooked. Aside from the clever writing and fun plot I was struck by the parallel between what I saw on the screen and Job. Job's faith put Satan in his place. Was a nail in his eternal coffin.

In Dr. Who, there was this entity, the Witch of the Well, who had been seen for centuries in the same spot. A ghost hunter and his companion assumed she was murdered there long, long ago and sought to rest in peace.

The Doctor, however, had a totally different theory. He discovered she was in a pocket dimension and was actually a time traveler from the future. but her circumstances affected the dimension of the present and the present affected her predicament as well. Although unseen to most, the dimensions were interconnected. Who had to travel to the pocket dimension to understand the plight, then rescue the young woman.

Our lives here affect the spiritual. The spiritual realm affects our reality - check out Daniel who's prayer went unanswered b/c a battle broke out preventing the answer to come in a timely manner. (I think it's chapter 9 if you wanna check it out).

Yancey concludes that there are no concrete answers to  feeling disappointed with God. We suffer and suffer and may never know why this side of Heaven. In fact, our situations may not get better this side of Heaven.

Heaven.

That's what it's all about. Our time here is short relative to eternity.

Earth is not our home. Disappointments and hurts make us long for our true place.

So what did I learn?

I can be all mad and miffed at life with God or without God. Whether I choose to turn on my heels and stomp away from Him or press into him I will suffer. Life sucks. The bombings in Boston by Islamic terrorists? The explosion in Texas? The economy? Our political climate? North Korea? Iran?

And you know what?

It's not gonna get any better.

I'm gonna face all the disappointment in life WITH God.

You?

The "V" word that makes me squeamish

Okay, okay, it's not what you think.

And I wonder if it has the same effect on anyone else... or am I alone?

The "V" word that makes me tremble and choke down this morning's eggs and spinach is vulnerability.

Free Dictionary defines it as being susceptible to physical or emotional injury. Susceptible to attack. Open to Censure or criticism; assailable.

I was vulnerable once. Until all of the above happened. And for the most part that is why I stopped blogging for three years. The pain from the emotional injury was way worse than any physical pain I ever felt. Here's some perspective - I had knee surgery two years ago where they had to saw my femur in half, crank it open, then screw and plate it back together.

Emotional pain is worse than physical.

For three years I've been piecing my life back together. Keeping to myself. Trusting fewer people than I have fingers. Not writing anything that could be used against me. Struggling to find my purpose and place. Feeling quite alone.


Last time I blogged I got myself into a whole heap of trouble. In fact, some people thought me and my ideas were a little too unsafe for the general churchy populace.

No.

Not doing it.

Blogging for reals requires vulnerability.

I can write silly posts and tell funny stories all day long. Even post the cutest cat pictures you've ever seen. But for what? Who would bother with this blog? How could that build relationships with potential readers?

It wouldn't.

So.

The only option left is to face the "V" Monster head on.

And blog.

So please, if anyone at all is even reading JITLB anymore, be patient as I poke my head out from underneath my rock. And indulge in cute cat pictures once in a while.

Will this beet the end of me?

Part of my three year absence was due to a complex array of health related issues including the creation of Frankenknee. But I won't bore you with details.

When life is unkind, being healthy is critical for dealing with the stressors that lurk behind every bush, hide under every rock and assault you each time you answer the phone or open an email. How can you fight off the boogeyman if you are curled up under a blanket in bed?

A few days ago I had a biomerdian test done to see where I'm at in the battle against Yeast Overgrowth Syndrome. My chiropractor noticed sluggishness in both my liver and gall bladder. The last thing I need is another surgery.

After Frankenknee and the nightmare with my mom last year, I don't ever want to see the inside of a hospital again.

Dr. Kristen prescribed me some "medicine". Food medicine. She told me Hippocrates himself said to use food as medicine.

After two days of taking said prescriptions, I am not sure how either of the following qualify as food.

Let's start with apple cider vinegar. I am taking that to detox my liver. I also get to wash it down with the juice of a whole lemon with a dash of cayenne pepper!

Have you ever tried to drink straight apple cider vinegar?

It is one of the most vile substances on the planet. I rank it with poop and vomit. At least I don't have to drink those.

Then there are the beets (for gall bladder). No, I do NOT get to cook my beet. I must put it in my Vitamix and drink the pretty purple liquid from a RAW beet. Tastes like dirt. Makes me relate well iwth earthworms.

But I tell ya, beets should come with a warning label!

Fortunately I was able to make 1+1 = 2 and knew I was not dying. But a person not in the know might die of a myocardial infarction in the bathroom. Pink and purple are not natural colors to be seen. Let's leave it at that.

I called the chiro's office this morning to ask if taking my "medicine" ever gets any easier. The response was, "Honestly... no. It's a matter of pure discipline."

Well then.

I must admit I slept all the way through the night last night for the first time in many months. Thanks to the nasty tasting concoction Dr. Kristen prescribed.

And after all, isn't medicine supposed to taste awful?

Gettin' my blog back on

I took a three year break.

Been through a lot of stuff.

Still going through even more stuff.

But...

There really is no such thing as perfect timing when all the planets, planes and pine cones all line up perfectly indicating it's now time to move forward again with the writing thing.

Oh, I haven't stopped writing. I've been working on my novel. I just felt the need to withdraw from any kind of notice.

Spotlight.

Judgement.

After sending out a proposal for my fiction, I was advised to focus on building a platform. My how things have changed in the past three years!

To blog or not to blog? What formats? Audience? Start a new one? Revive the old one? Do it all in thirty minutes hoping to attract ten thousand followers?

Yikes.

I've been exploring the world of Tumblr. Created a blog Silk Wood and Steel. It's a blog for color guard fans. I'm still trying to figure it all out. But it seems to be the place where guard lovers hang out and interact more so than Facebook.

My Twitter account is still around. You can follow me @DarcieJoy. Posts are more or less random as I figure out how to hone my content.

And after lots of brain torturing thinking, I decided to go ahead and bring Litterbox back to life as my personal blog.

About life. Writing. Parenting. Guard. Stuff.

So. Here I am.

Again.

:)

Not sure

February? I haven't posted since February? Obviously posting hasn't been on the top of my priority list and right now I'm trying to decide how worth it frequent posting is.

What is my motivation for blogging? Pretending I'm important, thinking people care about my tiny little world? I know the people directly in my life care, but out there in cyber world where there are millions of blogs? Not sure if this is the time in my life to spend hours revamping the look (I can't afford a designer at this time and none of the free templates work for me) or trying to think of something interesting and relevant to say.

Honestly, I'm in a very vulnerable and protective place. Don't want to draw attention to myself or my family given all the trials we are trying to survive.

Maybe when I do get a published book and a readership I'll reconsider a re-launch of the blog.

Right now I need to focus my time on my family, my guard and my book.

Big Honkin' Learning Curve

You think things should get easier as life goes on b/c you've "been there done that".

Yeah. Right.

I'm finding the curve in my learning curve has deepened and steepened to pitches unheard of. Around every corner I'm finding life is surprising me in some horrifying and interesting ways.

Right now I'm learning how to be strong. My friend and colleague, Todd Carrasco (Columbine HS drumline and Malachi Independent Winter Guard) is chanting Kia Kaha to me. It means "be strong" in some tribal language from New Zeland - I'm going to have to find out for sure on that one.

I'm at a crossroads where giving up and walking away would be the easy and even understandable thing to do. I'm learning success isn't about scores and placements. I'm learning how I handle crisis and situations that call for full blown freaking out will shape how my young padawan learners (AKA guard students) deal with crisis later in life.

I'm learning to think on my feet w/o panicking.

I'm learning to breathe deep and pray, trusting God will work things out - especially b/c He put me in this very place knowing all this very stuff would happen. That means I need to stick and be strong.

I'm learning I love my students fiercely and will fight for them as if they were my own kids. I refuse to let bad decisions made by some take away the very thing they are striving so hard to achieve.

I'm learning foundations go deeper than basic skills. Building trust, developing parental support, involvement and excitement are more valuable than a medal and need to come before the basic skills can be built and achieved. Especially when building a new program.

I'm learning my colleagues are there for me and we are a team. Even folks who direct other units are coming alongside of me in support. They see the potential in my students and the program and want to invest and help us out. Sure, we may compete against each other on the floor, but working together and supporting each other puts a whole new spin and fun in competition. It really does redefine success.

I'm learning tenacity and responsibility are not dead in today's teens. Today's teens have heart, grit and a maturity that is aching to be expressed. They are yearning for a cause or purpose to get behind and fight for. Contrary to a lot of eduspeak/psychobabble, there are kids today willing to sacrifice for a cause. I'm talking about kids being raised in an entitlement culture! These kids are seeing through the emptiness and are shucking it off, begging to shuck it off and learn self-discipline. Wow.

But it takes time, pain and perseverance to find those kids.

Yeah, life in my litterbox kinda hurts right now as I'm scrambling to Make Things Work in a few hours. But I'm seeing great joy in how my team is pulling together to overcome. Regardless of scores and placements.

Go Rebels!

For all the teachers, band directors and coaches out there

Being a teacher/coach/mentor is hard these days. I don't know about you, but sometimes when things are not going as I hoped, I wonder why the heck I do what I do. I'm getting too old to mash my hands with a saber blade!

But then things like this happen. Today I received a message on Facebook from a former student when I taught special education full time at Sheridan High School. I remember this student well. He was not easy or even pleasant to have in class, refusing to participate and gladly turned in blank exams and homework assignments. He'd disrupt my class every few minutes with James Bond trivia. I tried to hook him into learning by having him write Bond scripts for me pertaining to health. I think it was the writerly connection that kept me from totally losing it with him.

Yesterday I got a message.

Here's a piece from the letter:

As for school, I kind of regret not focusing in your classes in 9th grade especially health class. Perhaps I found it difficult to do or just wasn't used to asking for help and that's why I ended up quiting. But I learned over these years that if you didn't keep going or if you didn't ask for help and just quit, you miss out on a lot of opportunities especially in life. I have now vowed and dedicated myself to be more open and willing to work even if it is a challenge. My philosophy I think is "Don't think about how difficult it is, just get it done" and after you get it done, you feel like you have made a huge difference instead of doing nothing and sitting there thinking that it is no big deal whether you get it done or not.

Anyway, I'll talk to you later.

This student was a freshman in my health class at least six years ago. SIX YEARS.

I consider my years of full-time teaching my "dark years". The four years of my life I proved to myself that I am a total and utter failure in the classroom. After I left teaching, I sunk into a depression believing I failed. I believed I wasted years and years of my life pursuing a teaching career that was no longer.

Two and a half years ago I had this experience w/ a former student and band kid: Redeeming the Past. This still grips me. It was dramatic and profound. Take a moment to read it.

A short note from a former guard kid who ditched most of my rehearsals and appeared to hate my guts says this as she graduated over a year ago:

To the love of my guard life, I might have been a pain in your butt, but I'm glad I did guard this year and got to personally know you. Your [sic] wounderful [sic] and most of all you can put up w/ me!

What this last note revealed is that sometimes kids test us to see if we will put up with them over time. So many find adults get exasperated and walk out of their lives. Guard instructors get mad and quit. Adults walking out of their lives creates a void. A void that fills with pain. So, in the interest of self-protection they test the new adult, or in some cases they are new to the adult who's been there a while.

Kids who complained I pushed them too hard in guard come back and thank me for teaching them how to be pushed and push themselves.

Again, I'm talking years later.

That's what's so hard about teaching. It can take years IF you get to see some of the fruits of your labors.

I'm not posting this to toot my own horn, I'll leave that to the brass section. Rather I want to remind teachers and coaches why we do what we do. No matter how our season or semester progresses, we are impacting lives.

All the kids want from us is to show up and love them when they are feeling most unlovable. We may not feel like we're giving or achieving our educational/competitive goals, but in their eyes, we're sick.

It appears I'm dead, but I'm not.

September? Seriously?

I think I broke my own record for blog silence.

Can't count high enough to tell you how many times I've been asked, "Are you dead?"

No, I'm not dead. Felt like it at times, maybe wished I was, but I'm alive, kicking and coughing - thanks to the flu-y type things floating around.

Over the past few months I've been taking a break. Kinda reevaluating my life. What's important. What's not. Chasing ways to Make More Money and getting overwhelmed and discouraged.

Learning the definition of the words "simplify" and "focus".

I've come to the conclusion that I've been trying to do too much for all the wrong reasons. I've been struggling and fighting in my own strength the solve the How-will-we-feed-our-family-this-week problem. Taking on so much, I get NOTHING done.

Did you know it's possible to do so much you accomplish NOTHING?

Here's what I've learned.

• I'm not the Avon queen - being as disorganized as I am, I can barely handle my own customers on top of being in leadership. I think I need to pass my downline to someone more organized and less scattered and keep my current customers happy
• My novel may take a loooooooooooooong time to sell. Kinda knew that, but reality is hitting. It's time to let the process work and start something fresh and new
• 9 years of teaching guard doesn't mean I got it all down. I'm in a new school, with new kids and feel like I've never done this before. My students are stretching me, challenging me to grow and evolve
• I'm a mom. 3.5 year old boys need their mommies and love it when said mommies disengage from the computer
• Laundry doesn't do itself
• Spreading myself thin makes me holey. When I try to manage a dozen unrelated projects by spreading myself like a small pie crust in a huge pan, parts of me break and gaping holes open up and nothing turns out well
• Litterboxes don't clean themselves
• I've been waiting on Big Things to Happen rather than waiting on the Lord.
• Small boys can flood bathrooms when left to themselves for more than 45 seconds
• Friends are worth more than money
• People do care about me
• God won't let me or my family starve - he'll send people along with groceries or I'll get a call from a friend who found a great deal on potatoes and she bought more than she could use and wants to know if I need some
• Less is more
• I'm not stupid
• I have a destiny (don't know what it is yet)
• This too shall pass

I'm going through some really hard stuff and eventually my energy will return. Getting stronger hurts, but it happens. So, keep on checking back. I'll keep you updated and hopefully will blog more when I feel better.

Does your group need to raise money?

Fundraising is hard. Most of the time it's not much fun.

When I was in school, my mom made me wear my color guard uniform and go door to door in the neighborhood selling wrapping paper or cartons of citrus fruit. In the snow.

Going door to door is kinda scary these days, limiting those school fundraisers to nearby friends and family. And most programs only offer customers over-priced products grossing the organization only 15-20% of the profit.

Most of you know I've been an Avon representative for about nine months now. It's a way, in addition to my writing, to help put food on the table and take care of my family's needs.

What's in it for you?

I'm making you aware of an opportunity to help whatever group(s) you and your kids are involved in raise money.

Avon has a great fundraising arm. An ONLINE fundraising arm. Yup. You read me right. I can create an online event for your group offering all of Avon's deal-priced products to your group's supporters. Church groups, scouts, band/music programs, non-profits... groups with that tax exempt status can raise money through Avon.

What we do is register your group, assigns a special promo code unique to your group. Your group leaders and members do a publicity blitz. Customers go online to my website and order Avon products using that unique code. All of the order and profit activity is tracked and reports are emailed to organizers.

Customers order and pay online. Products are shipped to their door. No little kids banging on doors, collecting pocketfulls of money or juggling armloads of product (unless you really want to do it that way.)

Non-profit organizations earn up to 30% of their sales. Try to beat that with butter braids (15% -20% earnings) or entertainment books. And you get the creative, enthusiastic support of me!

Hey, I read a non-fiction book... and loved it

It says a lot about a non-fiction book if by the middle of the first chapter it's still in my hands. Even more so if I only put it down ONCE between peeling back the front cover and turning over the back with a satisfied sigh.
Only a mere handful of fiction books have earned can't-put-it-down-even-in-the-bathroom status from my finicky reader self.

Darcie's know the author disclosure: Kim Woodhouse is a good friend of mine. I've met her family and been to The House. I've even gone swimming with Kayla (she's a beast in the water let me tell you). So when I say reading Welcome Home is like sitting and listening to Kim tell her
family's story in her own voice, I know what I'm talking about.

Life is hard right now. Harder than ever for most of us who don't even have family members alive who lived through the Great Depression. People are wondering where God is. Americans, myself included, bought into the lie that if you love God and obey Him, life will be prosperous and full of vim and vigor.

Currently, people are either turning toward Him in the tough times or walking away. Welcome Home couldn't have been released at a better time. Kim doesn't come across as this unflappable churchy girl who bounces around on her tip toes saying, "God is good. All the time. All the time, God is good," to everyone she meets.

She's brutally honest about those bleak moments when God seemed invisible or absent. Her pain and hope are shared with clarity; even the studliest reader will be hunting for a tissue box. And think about the true nature of God and our purpose here on earth.

Most of all you will laugh. My poor asthmatic mom started hyperventilating while reading about an incident where the TSA suspected Kim of being the next uni-bomber. There is a lot of pain in Kim's story, but the pain juxtaposed on the joy is what makes the joy extreme.

You gotta go get yourself a copy of this book. Christmas is coming, nab a few for presents.

And best yet, pick up a few extra copies to hand out to people who are really hurting right now because life just sucks for them.

Happy reading!

Kimberley Woodhouse is a wife, mother, author, and musician with a quick wit and positive outlook despite difficult circumstances. A popular speaker, she’s shared at more than 600 venues across the country. Kimberley and her family's story have garnered national media attention for many years, but most recently her family was chosen for ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, The Montel Williams Show, and Discovery Health channel’s Mystery ER. Welcome Home: Our Family’s Journey to Extreme Joy, releases from Tyndale House Publishers September first. In addition to her non-fiction, she also writes romantic suspense and children’s books. Kimberley lives, writes, and homeschools in Colorado with her husband and two children in their truly “extreme” home. www.kimberleywoodhouse.com

Here's the blurb on the book

Overwhelming trials . . . met with overcoming joy.
Kayla Woodhouse is not your typical twelve-year-old. Due to a rare medical disorder, she feels no pain, doesn’t sweat, and needs protective cooling gear just to go outside. With her restrictive lifestyle; countless hospitalizations, including brain surgery; and the resulting mountain of hospital bills, what’s a family to do?

How the Woodhouse family has faced seemingly impossible challenges is a story that has captured the hearts of America. Millions of people have experienced glimpses of their lives on Discovery’s Mystery ER, The Montel Williams Show, and Extreme Makeover: Home Edition (recently voted one of the show’s all-time best episodes!).

Now Kayla’s mom, Kimberley, takes readers behind the cameras to reveal their family’s journey as never before told. From medical sleuthing to cross-country moves, from freak fires to battles with insurance companies, Welcome Home proves that truth really is stranger than fiction. This candid life story reveals both success and failure and demonstrates how, even during tough circumstances, to shift your life from heartbreak to extreme joy.

Peek inside the Woodhouse family’s life (and their famous house) with a 16-page photo insert.

Is a dog just a dog?

Many of you may know via Twitter or Facebook, that my dog is very ill. He's suffering from a horrible affliction called fly strike. Never heard of it before and never want to see it again. There's a lot of it happening right now in long haired dogs b/c flies are laying eggs.

Adult flies are attracted to things that stink, including dogs. Caleb had a short bout of the squirts. Despite me washing his bottom when I noticed the need, a fly had already laid eggs in the mess. Fly eggs hatch within 8-12 hours. Fly larvae are maggots. Maggots are born hungry and look for stuff to feed on. They start with the ick, then bore into the skin. All within 8-12 hours.

If a dog has long hair, the problem may not be noticed right away. The first thing we noticed was the stench. Didn't know what it was. Next day the dog was lethargic and barely moving.

As the hours ticked by, the stench worsened and he started oozing from who knows where (Sheltie, long hair).

Caleb had to go to the ER Sunday night. He was shaved from neck to tip of tail. The maggots started traveling up his back bone under the skin.

Yesterday he wasn't doing as well as the ER vet hoped. As I type he's in the hospital until he's stable. Hopefully we can bring him home today.

Vet care is expensive. We are in a rough spot. Food banks, past-due bills, day to day decisions on what's important and what we can live without. Most of America is feeling similar pain in the bank.

I've received some comments from people; "He's just a dog! You can't afford this. Just let him die."

I'm combining comments above. No one person said all that in one sentence.

The moment we knew Caleb had to go to the ER, John and I were physically sick. The ER fee alone is $100. We debated waiting until morning. We consulted with vet techs. But Caleb kept getting worse. Both of us felt it would have been awful to let Caleb simply die b/c we didn't have the money to pay for his care. Neither one of us could live with that.

We took him in. Good thing. He probably would have died before morning.

But he wasn't doing too well yesterday. I was preparing myself for the "he's suffering too much, probably won't make it" talk. Tearfully praying my way through the day for the strength to let go if I he wasn't going to make it.

Caleb is a strong little dog. The vet has seen worse. Caleb's being screened for underlying diseases (less cost now than later if more complications arise). The vet and vet tech did not recommend putting him down. He has too much life and a great quality of life. His recovery will be hard and ugly, but they believe he may pull through if his blood tests come back good.

The maggots have done a lot of damage. Caleb may require surgery (worst case scenario) to debride all the dead tissue on his back. About a whopping 9 square inches! Dollar signs are floating in front of my face.

"Just let him die."

How far does one go?

My gut feeling is this: Caleb is a part of my family. God gave us stewardship over animals back when Adam and Eve were in Eden. God knows when one sparrow falls from the sky. He cares about his creation.

Caleb is our responsibility. His doggy life is not worthless. No life is. Yes, human life is above animal, but no humans are gonna die from this.

Both John and I are feeling like we need to take care of the life entrusted to us over 9 years ago. We are trying hard to trust God will provide to cover Caleb's care and treatment.

Okay, so we go back to the food back this weekend. I need to find more and new Avon customers and get through the revision of my novel and pray it sells. We don't spend money on anything that's not a dire need. We pray the IRS will continue to have patience regarding back taxes. We pray God will cause Caleb's skin to heal so surgery is NOT needed.

The vet clinic sees where we are. Kim Woodhouse in her new book, Welcome Home, talks about James 1 2-4 - finding joy in trials. I'm trying to find "joy" in this distress. Potential joy in how the vet and all involved will react when Caleb makes an unexpected turn for the best and God provides the finances to pay. But in the mean time my attitude and John's attitude are key. We can't grump. I'm getting the nudge that I need to believe all this will happen (Caleb gets taken care of) before it does. So not me.

I need to see first, then praise later.

What if...

But that's not faith.

Yes, Caleb is a dog. He's not just a dog, he's my dog. A blessing God placed in my life almost 10 years ago.

UPDATE: Just got word from the vet. Good news. Caleb is doing well. Up and about, devouring food. Vitals are good. He's ready to come home. We'll have to take him in every 5-7 days to have dead skin tissue cut away (think burn victim). Doc wants to avoid surgery. Pray skin heals up very well.

I'm featured in a magazine!

Check out this month's edition of Christian Fiction Online Magazine - a magazine that stands out from all the rest of the e-mags. The format is similar to a print magazine and is professional in appearance and quality.

Check it out! Read about your fave authors and their books and, well, check out the spotlight on little ol' me.

Mommy has a headache so...

I feel like someone's played "Whack a Mole" with my head, leaving my brain quivering in agony, and my neck feeling like a collapsed accordion.

Thunder and lightening commandeer the sky chasing me and The Booger inside.

I gotta lie down.

Next thing I know, tiny fingers grab my eyelids, pinching and pulling. "Mommy. Wake up. Mommy, why are you sleeping? You heads hurts? Are you sleeping?"

Someone's hands, probably mine, flail knocking the pincers away. Fearing a repeat attack, I cover my eyes with my hands.

My nose is twisted in an unnatural position. "Mommy, do you gots boogers? How 'bout snots? Hey Mommy, look. Look! I pulling your hair. Mommy, I'm pulling your hair."

Fanning my fingers ever so slightly, I brace myself for the next "incident." A brown eyeball hovers over my hand hole. "Mommy, are you in there?"

Air explodes from my lungs as a thirty pound toddler belly-flops on my tummy. "I'm not gonna bite your face, Mommy. I'm not."

"That's nice," I say covering my face as The Booger proceeds to lick me. Ew. I push him off. "Mommy's head hurts. She needs to rest a bit, okay?"

"Ohhh-kay. I gotta find my pick-up truck." Booger trots up the stairs. His voices bounces off the hall walls, "I foun' it!"

THUD! THUD! THUD! "Brrrrrrrrr, mmmmnnnnnrrrrrrrr. Mommy, your airms are roads. Mmmmneeeer. Motorcyles race up Mommy's arms, over her nose, down other side."

"Leave me alone!" Plastic motorcycles fly through the air. I cross my arms over my face.

"Ohhh-kay. I listen to thunder noise. God's playing the drums."

Peace.

"Mommy! I make you feel better. Take your medicine." My right eyelid is torn back and a plastic object is shoved into my eyeball. Screaming I swat. "No, Mommy, you need to take your medicine!"

"Eyeballs don't take medicine," I sit up and grab his arms. "Booger, that hurts!"

"Your nose. What about your nose. Your nose takes medicine."

My hand shoots out like a striking rattle snake deflecting the doctor toy (the thingie they use to look in your ears) headed for my nose.

"Ohhhkayy." A plastic thermometer is shoved in my ear. "I take your temperature, Mommy. You have a fever."

By this time not only my head hurts, but my eyeball is throbbing and my ear stinging. The phone rings. It's John asking me to find a phone number. I sum up the past few minutes of torture and feel something rush up my leg.

A motorcycle.

"Mommy, the motorcycle is gonna get stuck on your butt."

Lovely.

Mommy has a headache so let's go ahead and take her mind off her head by making other body parts hurt.

Anyone want to buy a kid?

Disclaimer: For anyone considering calling child protective services over my last sentence... Don't. It's a JOKE. Like, I'm gonna sell the Booger on Ebay. Seriously?

Murder of music

I know my title is pretty extreme, but depriving kids of music is downright criminal.

Recently I lost my job as a color guard instructor. Not because I rotted at my job, but because school administrators didn't think music programs were important. I'd been at that school for eight years and feel like I'm grieving a death.

Below is a letter written to administration by a middle school parent. Permission to print and circulate this letter has been granted by the parent.

What A Loss 5/11/09

Today was the day I attended the last concert for my son’s middle school band at the Sheridan High School. The district decided to cut music from the school’s program from both the Middle School and the High School. All I could think of the whole time as we sat and listened, and then as we drove home afterward was, “What a Loss”. What a loss for those 20+ kids who practiced diligently and went faithfully to class each day to learn to read music and to play on an instrument. What a loss for the instructor who is so dedicated to instilling music into those kids, and what a loss for the parents, friends and family of all those kids sitting in the audience who will no longer have the enjoyment, pride and happiness that comes with seeing a child learn music.

Music is such a vital part of our everyday lives and has so many affects on a person’s all around being. A simple song can spark a memory and take you back to years and years in your past and bring forth a feeling inside a person of a time in their life that brought joy, sorrow, love or even laughter into their life. To take this gift away from not only the students of Sheridan, but the families of the students, the teachers, the staff and the community as a whole, to me, is such a great loss.

My oldest son graduated from Sheridan High School and was a dedicated musician to the Sheridan music programs and when I think back to all of the memories of those years, I cannot even tell you the disappointment that I feel. When I think of how many kids (my second son included.) will no longer have the opportunity to learn music or to have the memories of school with music all around them, all I can say is “What a loss.”

What will there be now to replace the music? HOW can you replace the music? Who will lead the Sheridan Day’s Parade? The Homecoming Parade? Who will play at the bon fires and basketball games? Who will play at the Pep Rallies and school assemblies? Who will play concerts for their parents and Christmas carols? Who will play for the school musicals? Who will play for the football, baseball, soccer, volleyball teams or wrestlers when they bring home the state championships? Who will play at the graduation ceremonies when our Sheridan students receive their diplomas?

Will you simply play a radio or a CD? Is that what this has come down to? Replacements? Can’t you see that you not you are not only replacing the music but you are replacing feelings, memories and most importantly, you are replacing PEOPLE.

When I think of the years and years of band competitions for marching band, jazz band and winter percussion that made so many students, parents, teachers and the whole Sheridan community so proud of what these kids from a small little community could accomplish, all I can think is – What a loss.

I pray there is some way to bring back the music programs of Sheridan. I want to hear the children’s music. If all we have, is to spend all of these events in years to come listening to a radio, CD’s or even worse, SILENCE, again I say, “What a Loss”.

Yvette Medina (Sheridan Middle School Parent)

Last week I was hired to teach color guard at Columbine High School. I'm excited about the opportunity, but my heart goes out to all the kids who'll never put their lips to a horn, sticks to a drum or hands on a flag.

Inconspicuous to mugglers?

Part of the whole geocaching thing is being inconspicuous. Don't want muggles to see where the caches are hidden so they can go steal or destroy it.

Pretty easy if you're in the woods, surrounded by rocks and trees. You can hide, or people think you're taking a breather or basking in the view.

In the city it's a different story.

There's this pesky cache titled "Duck Tape" that's located in strip mall retail area. Not many places to hide a micro cache (about the size of a film canister). Thinking I was oh-so clever, I wondered if the name of the cache was a clue. Did I have to duck down to find the darn thing?

Here I am with a orange drink sucking tyke following me around saying, "I wanna go home, Mommy. Do we have to geocache? There's no toys here."

If that wasn't bad enough, bending down with my big bottom up in the air toward passersby had to be the weirdest thing those people have seen in a long time. "Honey, why is that lady feeling around under the electrical box on the side of the store? Gee her butt is big!"

I'm amazed I wasn't arrested.

Not for suspicious behavior, but for grossing out people in cars and kids on skateboards.

Duck. Tape. I tried the "bottom's up" thing and am still scratching my head.

It was only my second attempt to find it. On the log, there are folks who went back seven times!

Wonder if they waggled their bottom round to the innocent folks at Mission Trace.

(My chiropractor's office was facing me and my butt. I'm so glad she didn't look out of her office and see me.)

Tired, tired oh so tired

You know you're tired when your nose gets stuck between the "g" and "h" keys on the keyboard.

You know you're tired when your son stands in front of you with yellow socks and yells, "Come on Mommy, to the dishwasher! I peed!" and you don't care.

You know you're tired when it's a gorgeous 78 degrees outside - you have two free hours - and you wish you could just crawl into bed.

You know you're tired when you don't feel like getting into the car and driving to a nearby geocache that everyone's raving about (Duck Tape).

You know you're tired when you stare at Twitter and wonder... why?

You know you're tired when picking up your tooth brush causes your arm to tremble under strain.

You know you're tired when you see/hear something funny and can't remember how to laugh.

Know know you're tired when you have homicidal thoughts toward anyone who talks excitedly about an upcoming vacation.

You know you're tired when you have to abandon a room of your house to floor-collapsing piles of laundry.

You know you're too tired when you don't know the difference between Desitin and toothpaste.

You know you're tired when you're writing a blog entry and forget what you're writing about... like now...

Thick skin

Who knew a simple summary of a news story about the geocache at Fairview High School could rouse an individual to the point of calling me a "junk journalist". I was accused to getting the story all wrong and making up my own facts. The comment writer even tried to stop people from reading my article by begging people to stay away from junk like mine.

There's a reason why I include links and source info on all my newsy stories.

At first glance, when I read the nasty comment, fire swept up my neck into my face. How dare someone accuse me of making up a story like that? Honestly I wanted to slap that person who was too chicken to sign their name. But the fact they didn't put a name invalidated their criticism. Someone told me to disregard comments people don't own.

Really, when you get down to it, the person was slamming Boulder's Daily Camera. A long-standing local paper for that community.

But writing another article with in-your-face facts was the only way I could move on.

The more I write, the more people are not going to like what I write. Proving my point or my sources will become a time-wasting exercise in futility. There will come a point when I need to nod, smile and ignore nasty remarks paying attention to the more positive responses or even corrections from an expert.

I don't mind criticism. Or even fact correction. I'll admit if I got something wrong. But slamming me for saying stuff that's not true without checking the sources I cited or even reading the whole article... not gonna bother.

Confessions from an ADHD business owner

Ya never realize how much ADHD affects your life until you try to work for yourself.

I'm self-employed as a freelance writer/author and AVON independent sales rep. Both careers are in the growing toward a profit stage - emphasis on the growing part - requiring hours of attention.

So.

Two weeks ago I was taking orders from staff at an assisted living community for AVON products. Everyone was eager to get their stuff. Much to my horror, when I got home I realized I jumped the gun on my campaign and was handing out brochures two weeks ahead of time! I was out of my newer supply of brochures before the older one. I had to explain that I oopsed and some items wouldn't be available for another two weeks.

Then there's the finding stuff. I touch something (a book, research notes, AVON business materials) and it disappears for several hours to several days. Each day I spend an average of two hours looking for something business related, forget the time spent looking for my car keys.

Invoices. They're supposed to make life easier on a sales rep. They list what each customer bought, calculate sales tax and total amount due. Great if after you print them out you can find them! Knowing things tend to walk away (Booger powered), I put things in a safe place.

My safe places must be super-safe b/c even I can't remember them! Something else grabs my attention, I forget my search for said invoices by a cat barfing, tweets from uber important people or the sudden realization I didn't publish an article to examiner, until a customer asks how much they owe for their stuff.

I should be able to hand a crisp invoice to them. Instead I bumble, stumble and tear my office apart for the tenth time that day looking. Knowing I had them.

I've got customers in all my different contexts of life. So, when I leave the house I not only need my purse and Booger stuff, I need AVON brochures, fund-raising materials that were requested, my judging stuff (if I'm going to judge a colorguard show) and writing stuff.

To date I have yet to arrive at any location with everything I was supposed to have. Oddly what I most forget is my wallet or Booger's diaper bag. Or appointments.

Scheduling.

When it was just me, I didn't have too much of a problem being where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there. My Palm Pilot served me well.

Now, I get phone calls from doctor offices asking if I remembered I was supposed to be there thirty minutes ago. Crazy thing is, I had it all written down not only on ONE calendar, but also on my Palm. I looked at the darn thing in the morning, then over the course of all the Stuff to Do, my brain transposed the times. Here I thought I was making good time. In the three years I've been a mom, I've NEVER been able to get the time right on dr appts.

I go from feeling proud of myself for being "ahead and prepared" to panicked and hurried, forgetting something crucial.

Yesterday I was organizing new brochures. I gotta stamp my contact info and the expiration dates on the back of each. Of 100. With five left, I realized for the past MONTH of brochures, I'd been putting the wrong dates on the back! I mis-calculated another two-week cycle! I cut myself short two weeks for the current campaign and have handed a bunch of material out. Great.

Catagorization? What's that? I can't do it. When someone does it for me, I get confused. When my stuff is thrown into a box, I get confused.

Making a list of "priorities"?

Yeah. Don't make me laugh. I can't decide what to do and start staring at the list getting NOTHING done.

With all the writing and AVON stuff I have a lot of password protected thingies on the 'net. Do you think I can remember my passwords? Do you think I can remember the answers to the hint questions I thought at the time were Darcie proof? Hah! I waste hours each week retrieving passwords.

I DO write them down. Don't ask me where I put them! My safe place must've moved again.

Money = numbers. Do you know how embarassing it is to go into a bank and not only confuse yourself as to which money goes where, but you confuse the teller so bad she gets it all messed up too!

Deposit 40% in time-savings for taxes, 20% in business acct for expenses, 20% to personal to pay myself and while you're at it, I need this check cashed.

I only do drive throughs and dump it all into one account and do transfers when I get home via net. Forget the whole split deposit thing! I wish my windows were tinted b/c even when I roll up to the window, I see the eyes of the teller widen in horror.

Sorry Danica (our writerly tax expert), my recipts all go in a ziplock. Hey, at least they are all in one place! It's either that or they are lost in the vacuuous void of my desk for eternity. Danica told us at Words for the Journey that we need to be uber organized in case the IRS audits us.

If an IRS agent came into my working space and tried to look at my stuff, he'd burst out laughing. Laugh until he hyperventilated, became hypoxic and the ambulance needed to come to put on a oxygen mask. Then I'd be arrested for second deree attempt at homicide.

Yes I have a psychiatrist. I've tried Ritalin, Aderoll. I've even had cognitive therapy in the past (after a traumatic brain injury). So far I've baffled every professional whose tried to help me wrangle in the ADHD.

I baffle myself.

Now, what was I supposed to get done this morning before the Psalm 42 concert tonight?