Across the United States, children in foster care—from toddlers barely walking to teenagers on the cusp of adulthood—face devastating upheaval. Their lives are torn apart through no fault of their own, often by family breakups rooted in abuse, addiction, or neglect. Physical beatings leave visible marks, emotional neglect carves invisible scars, and, most shattering of all, sexual abuse by parents or relatives robs them of innocence in ways that defy comprehension. For young kids especially, this betrayal cuts deepest—shattering trust, distorting their sense of self, and planting seeds of fear and shame that can cripple them for life. The trauma isn’t a phase they outgrow; it’s a lifelong burden, echoing into adulthood as anxiety, depression, or an inability to form healthy bonds, leaving them to wrestle with pain they never chose.
Into this chaos steps CASA—Court Appointed Special Advocates—a program born in 1977 when Seattle judge David Soukup saw that foster kids needed a dedicated voice amid overcrowded courtrooms. Today, over 97,000 volunteers like my wife, Kay Pratt, advocate for more than 250,000 children yearly across 49 states. To me, these volunteers are like angels among us, quietly doing work I see as touched by a higher purpose—bringing hope where it’s desperately needed.
Their mission is straightforward but profound: to champion a child’s best interests, most visibly in court, where they provide judges with detailed, firsthand perspectives no one else can offer. Beyond the courtroom, they work with DHS caseworkers, teachers, foster parents—anyone tied to a child’s life—ensuring these kids aren’t lost in the shuffle. They visit monthly, often more, forging connections with children whose trust has been broken, learning their struggles and needs. With 30 hours of rigorous training—plus court observation—they link kids to therapy, medical care, or school support, tackling the deep, enduring trauma of abuse head-on.
Volunteers like Kay commit fully, taking one case at a time from start to finish—whether that’s reunification with a rehabilitated family or adoption into a new one, a process that can stretch over months or years. They file regular reports, testify in court, and invest countless hours—all unpaid, without even gas money reimbursed. It’s a selfless act I see as extraordinary, reflecting a strength and compassion that feels almost divine.
That strength is essential. CASA volunteers confront the worst of human behavior—parents lost to drugs, relatives who prey on the vulnerable, systems that sometimes fail. The emotional weight is immense, especially when facing the raw pain of young kids scarred by sexual abuse, whose fragile worlds have been irreparably cracked. Yet volunteers persist, their resilience forged in training that covers trauma’s lasting effects, legal navigation, and fierce advocacy. Kay comes home drained some days, but she keeps going—a quiet toughness I admire deeply.
Their work stays private, as it must. Children’s identities are protected, so no social media posts or public praise mark their efforts. Kay can’t share the victories or burdens she carries, but the impact is real: kids with CASA advocates find permanent homes faster, re-enter foster care less, and do better in school. Each step forward is a hard-won triumph against the odds.
To me, CASA volunteers like Kay are angels among us—not in a flashy way, but in their steady, selfless presence. The program itself is a lifeline, channeling compassion into action. I see this vital work every day in Kay and her peers, who help kids navigate the wreckage of abuse toward something safer, something better. They don’t erase the pain, but they offer a chance at healing, a flicker of stability. In a world of brokenness, their quiet dedication proves that goodness can endure—one child, one advocate, one act of care at a time.
