Trevan.

Trevan was your stereotypical eight-year-old boy. He was timid, didn't know anyone at camp, and was away from home for the first time. Trevan had one characteristic that set him apart from other campers: his voice. He had a high, whiney, shrill voice that could pierce a concrete wall. You could have taped his voice and substituted it for Steve Urkel's on an episode of Family Matters. "Mr. Ca-aa-aa-aa-se" would fill the camp from the main road to the rifle range. "Mr. Ca-aa-aa-aa-se" would be the cry heard at bedtime. "Mr. Ca-aa-aa-aa-se" would ring through the air when a camper made fun of Trevan.

When Trevan's mother dropped him off, she informed me that under no circumstance would she come pick him up before Friday, unless he was deathly sick. Trevan's room wanted him to "grow up" and get over being homesick.

The moment she closed her car door, Trevan started to cry. He cried all day Monday. He cried all day Tuesday. On Wednesday, Trevan continued to cry and also started to follow me around. On Thursday, the waterfall continued.

After lunch on Thursday, Trevan and a group of campers were fishing by the lake. I was baiting hooks as fast as I could, when suddenly "Mr. Ca-aa-aa-aa-se" rang among the trees. Trevan was fishing to my right about 75 feet away. "I'm hooked on the bottom," he said.

When I looked, Trevan's pole was bent in half. I quickly told him to set the hook. His reply was that he did not know how. "Just pull back on the rod!" I yelled in the poorest communication techniques I know. Trevan did just that; he stepped back, pulled on the rod - and tripped over the tackle box. When he got back up and grabbed his rod, he started to cry again. "Trevan," I called to him, "pull back over your shoulder." I demonstrated, jerking my pole over my shoulder.

When Trevan did so, I heard the "zzzzzz" of line spinning off his reel. My thought was, Well, it's not a turtle. When I reached Trevan, I helped him increase the drag on the reel to stop the line from spinning out. While he reeled, I pulled on the line to help bring in the catch. After 45 minutes of fighting and pulling and reeling, we landed an 18-inch catfish on a rod and reel designed to catch pan fish. Trevan stood in awe, and in typical Steve Urkel fashion, pointed to the fish and said, "Did I do tha-aa-aat?"

The next trick was to get the picture. I sent a counselor to the office to get the camera while I held the fish, which Trevan would not pick up for anything. He shrieked and yelled every time the fish flopped. Trevan stood about three feet away, feet firmly planted, and extended his index finger to touch the tail for a brief second. By the time the camera arrived, Trevan was already heading to the shower house to "wash off the slime."

Trevan's mother came and picked him up on Friday. The entire staff waved goodbye not to a problem child, but one that needed a lot of extra love and attention.

In late September, I received a phone call. "Hello, Mr. Ca-aa-aa-aa-se," was the reply on the other end of the receiver.

"Hello, Trevan," I said.

"How did you know it was me-ee?" he asked.

"I have Caller ID," I lied.

"Can I come back to camp next year?" he asked.

My heart melted. Here was a child who cried all week to go home, and he wanted to come back to camp. When I spoke to Trevan's mother, she told me that of all the camps that he attended that summer, ours was the one he kept talking about. We were the only one that kept him for the full session and did not send him home.

I have seen Trevan several times since camp at various youth functions. He still has a shrill, ear-piercing voice. He still cries when his morn is out of sight. But he wants to come back to camp. Isn't the power of camp amazing? Welcome back, Trevan.

Mark H. Case, CCD, is director of R.C. "Cliff' Payne Woodmen Camp in Randleman, North Carolina.