the light
REN Newsletters & Reports
Fall 2025 Newsletter
she chose me
BlueSky is a unique canine training academy for individuals navigating life transitions and recovery. By bringing together canine training and mental health, we create an inspiring space where both people and dogs are valued, understood, and empowered to thrive.
Through a partnership with a local recovery program, students are paired with reactive dogs to teach obedience, socialization, and manners. As the dogs learn, people heal — both finding new beginnings together.
During our very first introductory session — before the dogs even arrived — John approached me. His years of hard living were evident in his eyes and his voice. He told me plainly that he didn’t like dogs and didn’t want to work with them. I assured him that we would honor his wishes, but encouraged him to attend anyway. “You might enjoy watching the others wrestle with the dogs,” I said laughingly. “And who knows — you might even learn something useful.”
When our first canine training session began, John sat back with a few others who weren’t sure they wanted to participate. We started with a simple walk to help the dogs and the men release some energy. Carolina, one of our older dogs, tired quickly in the heat and decided she was done for the day. One of the men who wasn’t walking offered to hold her lead while we finished up. Carolina happily plopped down in the shade beside the group.
A few minutes later, I looked over and saw that Carolina had quietly made her way to John. She had nestled right next to him, pressing her body against his leg in her signature “deep lean” — her way of asking for affection. John’s face was a mix of surprise and discomfort. He leaned away as she leaned in, looking up at him with her warm and searching welcoming eyes.
As the instructor, I faced a choice — step in and move her or wait and see what unfolded. I chose to wait.
When I glanced back, John’s hand was resting awkwardly on her head. A moment later, Carolina placed her paw gently on his knee. Then came her familiar persistence — rolling onto her back, nudging him softly whenever he stopped petting her. Soon John was smiling from ear to ear, saying, “Look at her — she likes me.” Then he turned to the others and said, almost in disbelief, “She chose me.”
After class, John approached me again.
“What’s that dog’s name?” he asked.
“Carolina,” I replied. “Thank you for taking such good care of her — she’s my old girl, very special to me.”
He nodded and said, “She’s an old dog like me.”
He told me she was a good dog — that he liked her — and wanted to know when we’d be back.
At our next session, Carolina was greeted by name with enthusiasm from the group. I soon learned that John hadn’t stopped talking about “the old dog who chose him.” He approached me quickly that day and said, “I can’t walk her because of my heart, but I sure want her to sit with me again.”
And so they sat together — the old man and the old dog. He, stroking her fur, whispering to her over and over that she was a good old girl. She, leaning closer, eyes soft and smiling, full of knowing, soaking up every word.
I often share with our group that God chooses us — that He desires a relationship with us. Watching John and Carolina, I was reminded how powerful it is to be chosen. For some, that simple truth is hard to grasp when they’ve never felt chosen by anyone before.
How must it have felt for John, looking into those warm, golden eyes, realizing she chose him, liked him, pursued him, and accepted him exactly as he was — no judgment, no conditions. Just love. She also allowed him to love her the best way he knew how.
In that quiet moment, I believe Carolina was showing him a glimpse of the love God has for each of us — patient, personal, and pure. The old dog was reflecting Christ in a way only she could, in a way John’s heart could receive.
Stories are adapted for privacy. Student/Parent names and identifiable details are changed for privacy.
Summer 2025 Newsletter
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Hope
Tam sat in the corner of the classroom, wide-eyed and restless. It was her first day. The room buzzed with chaotic energy—girls talking, laughing, making cruel jokes, poking and prodding one another just to see how far they could push things. Tam didn’t know anyone. She didn’t know who was safe or who she could trust. She was alone and in shock.
Tam’s life was a long list of “un’s”: unsafe, unpredictable, unimaginable, and unsustainable. She knew little about her parents—just that her father left before she was born, and her mother was addicted to drugs. During her childhood and early teens, Tam bounced from extended family to acquaintances to foster care. She didn’t belong anywhere or to anyone. She had dropped out of school around sixth grade.
With all that instability, Tam never found her footing. She didn’t develop friendships, routines, structure, or a sense of self-worth. What she did develop was a cloudy understanding of how to survive. With no proper guidance, she trusted the wrong people and ended up in dangerous situations. After several stints in juvenile detention for various charges, she landed here.
That week, I brought a special guest with me—a tiny puppy named Tang. He and his siblings were staying at a local shelter, waiting to be adopted. Today’s visit was part of his socialization, and a chance for the girls to love on a sweet little pup.
As soon as we walked in, the room erupted in “oohs” and “awws.” The girls always looked forward to seeing Remi, our regular therapy dog, but this was something extra special. Tang was tiny, shy, and uncertain of his surroundings. The girls made a safety circle on the floor, and we let him wander from one girl to the next.
As they giggled and cuddled him, I scanned the room. There are always a few girls on the outskirts, watching. Some are unsure how they feel about dogs. Others just aren't in the mood. Most often, it's the newest arrivals.
I noticed Tam right away. She was clearly uncomfortable, awkward, and unsure of what to do with herself—drifting around the edge of the group, watching intently.
I began sharing Tang’s story—how he didn’t have a forever home yet. I asked the girls how they thought he might feel.
“Sad,” they said.
“Lonely.”
“Scared.”
Then I asked, “What do you think he’s feeling right now, here with all of you?”
There was a moment of silence. Then a voice, quiet and unexpected:
“Hope.”
I looked up. It was Tam.
I gently asked her why she said that. She stumbled over her words a bit but said she thought being with people who cared—even just for a while—gave Tang hope. That maybe things wouldn’t always be bad. That even if people didn’t know exactly how to love him, they were trying, and that mattered.
Tam was hesitant to hold him at first, but when she finally did, something inside her softened—maybe even broke open. She turned away so the other girls wouldn’t see her tears. Tang stayed still in her arms, quiet and calm.
I distracted the group with a clean-up task and moved to stand beside her.
“He’s so little,” she whispered. “It’s not okay for him to be alone. Why does he trust me?”
“Maybe,” I said softly, “he knows you understand.”
She nodded. We stood there quietly together in that moment.
Over the next few weeks, Tam began to open up and share pieces of her story with me. Then one day, she was gone.
I don’t know where she went. But I choose to trust that God had her there for such a time as this.