Two weeks after I first came to work at the Youth Ranch in 2001, an 8-year-old boy named Billy was placed with us. Billy had been in other foster homes, and, based on his history, we knew it would be a challenge to keep him.

Billy had been a victim of abuse all his life. He had a large red mark on his forehead. He explained to me that he had tried to push himself out of a lit oven, and his forehead had been scarred on the hot door.

Billy had many scars, physical and emotional. He was labeled "intense" by state monitors, the highest level of difficulty a child can be assigned. This meant that he would need around-the-clock attention, a specialized treatment plan, and a team of high;y skilled professionals committed to his healing over a long term. One "expert" suggested that he might be a candidate for a mental hospital, that he would never be normal.

  Billy was certainly a handful. He climbed trees to avoid bedtime. His vocabulary was one that an 8-year- old child should never have been allowed to hear, let alone repeat. He called peers and adults alike names that would make a sailor blush.

Billy had no tolerance for authority. He was sent home daily from school. He kicked, he screamed, he ran. He kept us all in running shoes, and on high alert – and this went on for four years!

Still, there was something about him, and we just couldn’t give up. We had made a commitment to Billy to do all that we possibly could – to give him a home, to help heal his wounds, and to teach him how to live with others.

I took a special interest in Billy. We were both "Ranch rookies" at the time. Like other staff, I wanted to teach him better habits, appropriate language. We encouraged him to stay in school. We wanted him to know what every child should know – that people cared about him, his education, and his future.

For all our caring and encouragement, the turning point might not have come without the opening of the Charter School in 2005. The local public schools were just not geared to deal with children like Billy, so complex and needy. They would just send him home at the first sign of non-compliance. Billy began to leave even before they had a chance to send him away. He was learning only that he didn’t fit.

Five years after coming to the Ranch, Billy is flourishing. He’s "basic", a level reserved for children requiring the least supervision. He has earned the privilege to bicycle through the Ranch, and is President of the "Rockhounds Club". It is always a pleasure to open my door and see Billy there, handing me a flower or rock he’s found, or just stopping by to visit. Perhaps most miraculously, Billy is looking forward to the next school year!

Knowing Billy today, it is easy to forget just how big a miracle all this is. I still remember a particular day – it was a Tuesday morning, just after 10:00, and I was at the office. The phone rang. The receptionist turned to me and asked, "Can you run over to the Ingram Elementary School and pick up Billy? He’s acting up again."

I went to the school and picked him up, not the first (or the last) time I would participate in this almost daily ritual. I took him for a milkshake and we talked. He told me how difficult it was to be in a school with other kids who were "more normal" than he was. He didn’t understand the class rules and procedures, as he had never before attended school regularly He was confused, and scared.

We knew that the only authority Billy had ever known had been abusive, and that he froze with fear whenever he was scolded, losing all focus and ability to stay on task. The moment that happened in a classroom, he reverted to what he knew – he ran away.

Billy is like so many of our children to whom school is a scary place. As if the trauma of coming to live with strangers after a life of abuse weren’t enough, they are simultaneously thrown into still another foreign arena – school.

Gary Priour, HCYR’s Founder and Director, had watched this pattern for years. He could see that, despite many dedicated teachers, public schools were really not interested in troubled children like Billy. They were overwhelmed with numbers, and just didn’t have time to deal with all the special needs.

He also realized what a struggle it was for Billy, and others like him. He felt we were doing these children a disservice by forcing them to go to a school where they could not succeed. Finally, the decision was made to open a Charter School on the Ingram campus. We’d already seen the amazing progress of the teenagers attending the Ed Brune Middle and High Schools at the Big Springs campus.

As soon as the school opened last August, with five classes of children who had seen failures in the public school, results began to dazzle us. Students, including Billy, attended every day, and stayed on task. They applauded one another for successes. They advanced at a rapid rate. They won awards.

With the help of special teachers, small classes and an individualized curriculum, Billy fell in love with school. His attitude toward others also changed, and he transformed before our eyes.

Billy is now a role-model for other children. He opens the door for you when you are entering or leaving a room. Recently, he took me to the "Rockhounds’ Clubhouse", where the Club’s finds are housed. He told me about the differences between quartz, flint and other stones. He proudly showed me a set of antlers he found on a recent excursion.

As we spent the afternoon together, I asked him, "Billy, what happened? I remember a little boy who kicked and screamed and ran, and had a pretty foul mouth. Now, I see a 13-year-old young man who is well-mannered, engaged in activities and a leader for others. What happened, Billy?"

His response was both heart lifting and humbling. "You never gave up on me, so I decided not to give up on you. This is my home now and it always will be, even when I grow up and move away. You loved me, and now, I love you back."

Never giving up on Billy was, it turns out, a gift we gave ourselves.