Embraced in 101 countries and 25 languages, Conscious Discipline’s foundation of safety, connection and problem-solving is leading a revolution of the heart as concepts initially applied in the classroom extend to every facet of our lives. For more information click here.

Dr. Tim has provided practical, common sense guidance to children, parents, and professionals throughout the world. He is also founder of Camp Weloki for Girls.  Click here to learn more about Dr. Tim.

Bart’s Blue Star Foundation, Inc., a registered 501(c)3 nonprofit foundation formally known as the Lt. Robert Fletcher Memorial Foundation, Inc., was formed in honor and from inspiration of a tragic event in the lives of Jack and Ginny Luther. On Sept. 8, 2008, their 24-year-old son, 1st Lt. Robert B. Fletcher (who went by Bart), was tragically murdered in the line of duty in Ft. Hood, Texas.  Donations welcomed here.

From the book


9:30 p.m. September 8, 2008.

“Don’t fuck with me!” I screamed into the phone to Jerry, my ex of 20 years, while pacing back and forth from the living room to the dining room, trying not to hear what he was telling me.

“It’s true, Ginny. Bart is dead,” his words came in gasps. He could barely get them out between sobs, as if wanting to retract every word before it slipped out. I heard his pain but couldn’t
acknowledge its cause. 

I never mince words when I’m in fear or pain. What comes out of my mouth is unpredictably repugnant and scary at times. Expletives tumbled out of my mouth as if they had been sight
words in my elementary school primer “This is not a joke, you
asshole. I don’t believe one fucking thing you’re saying. Don’t pull this shit on me.” Jerry handed off the phone to someone. I could hear them fumbling with it as it changed hands. An unfamiliar voice identified itself as an officer of the
United States Army.

At that moment my doorbell rang. Panic gripped my throat. Jack, my husband of 18 years, flung open the door. As if on cue in what I mistakenly thought was Jerry’s melodrama, two uniformed military officers stood on the threshold. The
suddenness with which the door was opened threw them off their script. They looked at me, standing in the middle of the room with the phone in my hand, mascara smeared across my cheek, staring back at them as if they were aliens on my doorstep. They looked at Jack, his hand still on the doorknob.
And then they looked at each other with dread. Obviously, the
horrifying news they were there to deliver had preceded them. 

 I threw down the phone and began shrieking. Jack clutched me like an attendant on a psychiatric ward trying to contain an out-of-control patient.
“Breathe, sweetie, we’re gonna get through this,” he whispered in my ear. “No, no. He can’t be dead. He just got back from Iraq. No!” I screamed.

My world began to slow, the pace dragging and picking up
again. What were those terrifying screams? Who were they coming from and where had I heard them before? I couldn’t hear what the officers were saying. I could only read their body language and watch their lips slowly spell out the message I had dreaded for so long. My baby boy was gone…forever.

“On behalf of the President of the United States…”

He would never walk through that door again. I would never again see that beautiful smile that could light up a room in an instant.

“…and the Secretary of the United States Army…”

I would never be able to touch his precious face or feel the Mom-hug he demanded whenever he hadn’t seen me in a while. I would never again listen to his laughter or be the
recipient of his playful jokes that challenged my gullibility.

“…it is my unfortunate duty to inform you…”

We would never have another chat in the wee hours of the morning that defined the closeness and understanding we shared…

“…your son, First Lieutenant Robert Fletcher…”



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