The Hills Are Alive . . .

I woke up this morning to the sound of music. No, the Oscar-winning movie was not playing on my TV. This was better. This was so much better. I woke up to the sound of my daughter singing - a beautiful noise that hasn't been heard around here much over the last few years.

When we finished the basement when our kids were teenagers, we built a stage. Since our little girl was old enough to turn a hairbrush into a microphone, she had been performing for anyone who would listen. She would jump up on fireplace ledges or stand on ottomans, ready to sing her little Reba McIntire or Brittany Spears-lovin' heart out. It seemed only right to create a suitable place for our dedicated songstress to flap her artistic wings and so we elevated a platform, covered it in parquet flooring and outfitted it with a three disc karaoke machine, complete with a cordless mic. Happy that she could finally stash her hairbrush back in the bathroom drawer, she would spend endless hours downstairs belting out Pink's latest hits or wrapping her pipes around Mariah's latest ballad.

Then the music stopped. For almost five years, our daughter didn't have much to sing about. Strangled by the effects of a five-year battle with an eating disorder, her once strong, vibrant voice withered away. Her daily trips to the basement ended. Her daily trips to the bathroom escalated. And, while our main goal was helping her find the resolve to beat the greatest enemy she had ever encountered, it was heartbreaking to think the loss of her beautiful voice might be permanent.

Six months ago, everything changed. Through the grace of God and the intervention of a couple of amazing people He put in our daughter's path, she is on her way back from the abyss. With her new-found strength and determination, she has fought back to reclaim her life. She has rediscovered her sense of joy. She has found her voice.

And the sound of it is once again filling our home.

Wasted Blessings

This weekend we got the news of another celebrity death that looks to be tied to substance abuse. When you hear about a superbly talented person, blessed beyond belief, unable to break free from the stranglehold of addiction, you realize what a powerful force it is. And even though the news wasn't particularly shocking, you couldn't help but feel a profound sense of sadness over the waste of such talent; over the loss of a young girl's mother. But that's the thing about addiction. It doesn't care how rich you are, how smart you are, or how loved you are. It's an equal opportunity destroyer.

As someone who's watched a loved one struggle with similar behavior, I sympathize with what Whitney Houston's family must be going through. It's the hardest thing in the world to watch someone you love reject a way out, convinced they can "handle" it. You can beg, plead, cry, and yell; you can try to reason and inform but none of it will do a damn bit of good until the addict is ready; until they are sick and tired of being sick and tired. Then, you might have a fighting chance to get through.

Watching the news coverage this weekend made me more grateful than ever that our family is getting that chance.