One phone call, three words, and my life was ripped apart. I’d been enjoying the warm September sun, relaxing on the deck. My cell rang. It was my daughter, Wendy. I answered, and she was screaming. Her voice was hysterical, and I couldn’t understand her, but my heart was pounding. 

“Wendy, I can’t understand you. What’s wrong?”

“DJ has drowned. I’m at Chicory Ridge Pond.” 

“I’m on my way.”

Visions of the search for my son, Michael, flashed through my mind. I’d been in my daughter’s shoes, known the hysteria and heartache, and there was nothing I could do to change the story.

My grandson, Dana, better known as DJ, had been at a friend’s house playing basketball. The boys were hot and sweaty. Walking home to DJ’s house, they passed Chicory Ridge Pond. It was a hole dug while the subdivision was under construction, and later it filled with water, sludge, sand, and rocks. It wasn’t supposed to be there, but it was. Two teenage boys decided to cool off by challenging who could get to the other side first.

They both rushed into the water and started swimming. DJ was the stronger swimmer, so he immediately had the lead. Justin yelled he was going back and started toward the shore. When he got there, he turned around to see how far DJ was, and my grandson was nowhere. Justin began to call DJ’s name frantically. He rushed around the pond, looking for him. Another teenage boy, Mitch, was riding his bicycle and heard the commotion. He came running and dove into the water, diving down, trying to find him, but to no avail.

I lived forty-five minutes away, so divers and boats were on the pond by the time I arrived. An ambulance and police were waiting on the far side. My daughter stood at the shoreline, quiet, staring out at the water. I walked to her side, and our eyes met, but neither of us could share any words. She turned back to watch the divers. I chose to walk to the other side and sit on the grass, watching, waiting, hoping someone would find my grandson’s body.

They did not find him that night, nor the next, or the next. On the fourth day, they brought enormous pumps in and started to drain the pond. I returned to my chosen spot and sat, watching and waiting. I knew I would not leave my vigil until DJ was found. 

Finally, midmorning, one of the divers radioed that they’d found him. Later, we would learn that he’d tried to push off from the bottom, but the silt and sludge had sucked him down like quicksand. The officers escorted me back to the other side. They wouldn’t allow me to remain where they would carry him out. I met my daughter near the pond entrance, where she’d stayed with a large group of friends and family. Our eyes met, and we hugged, but neither of us could exchange a word. The pain in our eyes spoke volumes. We’d shared a similar moment long ago.

It was my birthday, and God had answered my prayers. DJ’s body was recovered, and now his family would be able to say their last goodbyes. On a warm September day, a seventeen-year-old boy’s life came to a tragic end. 

At his funeral, numerous teachers, a coach, and friends spoke about this special boy, about his infectious smile, his willingness to help others, his love of race cars and playing sports, and how if you needed a friend, DJ was always there. 

For me, his Nana, I struggled, wondering why our family faced tragedy again. In the end, I knew that life happens, good and bad. God didn’t choose to have bad things happen to our family, but it did. Remembering my grandson’s smile made me smile too. I knew in my heart that’s what he would want all of us to do. Regardless of how dark the day seemed to us, the sun was shining for him.