Richard Braly is a new Trail Life Registered Adult volunteer and the father of a six-year-old Trailman. Like many Trail Life leaders, Richard was a Boy Scout, from a Tiger Cub all the way into adulthood. As a teenager, he worked as a counselor at multiple BSA summer camps in Texas and Oklahoma. Those positions required him to stay current on First Aid and CPR training. Recently, those skills were put to the ultimate test when his own son’s life was on the line.

Richard shared his story with us, and it powerfully illustrates why the practical skills instilled in boys through Trail Life are so important. They don’t just enrich boys’ lives—they can save them.

Here is Richard’s story, in his own words.

I think back to that night. It started normally enough. My son had been sick—nothing unusual, just a stuffy nose and sore throat, the common cold. We were winding down for the night: the usual routine, the usual fight to get the kids to bed. He didn’t resist much beyond one more request for honey and some medicine to soothe his throat. He went back to his room. My wife and I began to relax and get ready for sleep.

Then it started. He came in barely able to make a sound—just a croak—and the first stirrings of panic were in his eyes. His skin, instead of the warm, healthy glow we knew, was ash-colored.

The panic had begun. His eyes pleaded with my wife first, then with me—a silent cry for help. My wife immediately told me we had to get him to the hospital and whisked him to his room to clothe him. The severity had not registered yet; the full terror had not set in. I started to get dressed for the drive when I heard my wife cry from our son’s room: “He’s turning blue!”

I rushed and saw my wife holding our son. His skin, rather than ash now, had taken on a blue I’ve only ever read about in stories—the kind of blue that heralds death. I locked eyes with him and saw only fear. Then, as suddenly as life had been there, it faded. His eyes went milky and rolled back. He went limp in my wife’s arms. She looked at me—the one she trusts to protect our children—and I saw the raw plea for help.

I took his limp body. He’s normally so full of life you’d struggle to make him sit still. My training took over:

Step One: Assess. I pulled him into the hall where I could work and placed him in a position to help him breathe. I kept my eyes on him and swallowed the flood of emotion that wanted to consume me. I told my wife to call an ambulance and then started to work.

In that moment, muscle memory from years of preperation—those long summer days working as a counselor at Scout camp, drilling CPR until it was second nature—rose to the surface. What had once been a skill on a checklist was now the lifeline my son desperately needed.

Step Two: Clear the airway. I reached into his mouth, farther into his throat, desperate to dislodge anything blocking his airway. I remember being surprised at the resistance when I pried his jaw open.

Step Three: Compressions. Hard. Deep. Ribs may break. Doesn’t matter. That would be a later concern if he lived. For now, I needed to keep blood and oxygen moving. Still, there was no change; his face stayed that serene, untroubled expression you see in sleep or the same blankness you see on a body in a coffin.

Step Four: Rescue breaths. I clasped my mouth around his and forced air from my lungs into his, thinking if I could only get oxygen into him it might break whatever barrier held him. I bent back and continued compressions. I saw crimson begin to flow from his mouth and nose. A cold dread filled me. Memories flooded me—his laugh, his stubbornness—and with them, the future I feared I’d never see: a family, challenges met and overcome, a life that stretched forward with possibilities.

I snapped back to the present and kept going. I continued compressions and breaths even as my soul cried out and I prayed, begging God to bring him back. At the same time I tried to accept that God’s will, not mine, would be done—a truth that brought me to my knees even as I fought.

Behind me, my wife’s cries were full of the dread only a mother bears. Then, faintly at first, I heard a crackle—a breath. I looked at him and saw a sliver of life return to his eyes. They struggled to open; he took another labored breath. I felt the flashing lights outside and my wife rush to the door. I pulled him against my chest, feeling warm blood spread across us, and sat him up against the wall. He looked at me. I said his name. He looked back. Consciousness came in gasps, but it came.

Paramedics arrived and took over; I backed away, shaking. I looked at my hands, crimson with his blood, then at my son. The blue had gone; he was still pale, still fragile, but he was alive. They asked me to come with him in the ambulance. I carried him in.

My son lived. Praise God. But the images stay with me. Some days I feel almost normal; other days I pick at a mental scab and it bleeds afresh. I tell myself we were blessed, that God is good, and that even if things had gone the other way I would still trust God’s goodness. I pray, with time, the bleeding in my mind will scab over—but for now, the night lives with me.

During that harrowing experience, our family received tremendous support—not only from our church, but also from our Trail Life Troop. We had been considering Trail Life for some time, but Liam had only attended two meetings before he was hospitalized. Even so, we received several encouraging messages from Troop members and even visits from the Troop’s leadership while we were in the hospital. Seeing that kind of care and community definitely encouraged us to get fully registered, and it inspired me to take a more active role as an adult leader.

While I’m not currently certified to teach First Aid and CPR, I do plan to obtain those certifications soon. I hope to use my experience to encourage other parents and boys to get trained as well—so that they, too, can be prepared if they ever face an emergency like ours.

I’m grateful to be part of the Trail Life family and look forward to serving alongside everyone in this ministry.

Walk Worthy!

Find a Troop near you or Learn how to bring Trail Life to your community at TrailLifeUSA.com