Friendship

From Meme to Milestone: Day 67 at Heritage

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Today marks my final day of student teaching—and fittingly, it also happens to be the 67th school day. Across schools everywhere, the number 67 has become a running joke, a meme, a little craze that students and teachers alike have embraced. For me, though, the number 67 will always carry a deeper meaning. Out of 70 total days in this placement—including four pre-service days at the start and one day I missed in October for my Emory appointment—67 were spent in the classroom, learning, teaching, and growing alongside the Heritage community.

When I first learned I’d be placed at Heritage, I’ll admit it wasn’t in my top two choices. In fact, I had my heart set on one particular school. But a wise principal encouraged me to broaden my horizons and try something new—specifically, to step into the high school world. Up to that point, my experience at that level was limited to just observation hours. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I wondered if I’d be ready.

Looking back now, I am so glad that Heritage is where I ended up. This placement turned out to be a real success. The students, staff, and community here have given me experiences I never could have imagined, and they’ve shaped me in ways that will stay with me long after graduation. I’ve learned not only about teaching content but also about building relationships, fostering engagement, and finding joy in the daily rhythms of school life—even in something as quirky as the number 67.

No reflection on these 67 school days would be complete without mentioning the people who walked alongside me. My mentor, Mr. Ethan Dempsey, has been a steady guide and source of encouragement throughout this journey. His wisdom, patience, and example have shaped not only my teaching practice but also my vision for the kind of educator I hope to become. I hit a grand slam with him—not just because of his expertise, but because of the way he treated me as a true colleague. He never relegated me to menial tasks like making copies or sitting on the sidelines. Instead, he invited me into the heart of the classroom, trusted me with meaningful responsibilities, and gave me space to grow. He offered feedback with care, modeled professionalism with humility, and made sure I felt both challenged and supported. His mentorship has left a lasting imprint, and I’ll carry his example with me into every classroom I enter.

The entire Social Studies department welcomed me as one of their own, offering advice, resources, and camaraderie that made each day richer. Beyond that, the entire faculty, staff, and administration at Heritage High School created an environment where I felt supported and valued. Their professionalism and kindness set the tone for the school, and I am grateful to have learned in such a collaborative community. My GCU Faculty Supervisor, Mr. C.L. Dunn, was very helpful as well. He had some great feedback after observing me during my four observation evaluations.

And of course, the students—nearly all respectful, mostly engaged, and often inspiring—reminded me daily why this work matters. They brought energy, curiosity, and humor into the classroom, and they challenged me to grow as both a teacher and a person.

Tomorrow I’ll finish my online student teaching course, and with it, my M.Ed in Secondary Education. I’ll graduate with a GPA of 3.83, but more importantly, with gratitude for the people and places that made this journey possible. Heritage wasn’t the plan I thought I wanted, but it was exactly the placement I needed.As I move forward, I’ll carry with me the lessons of these 67 school days: that growth often comes when we step outside our comfort zone, that laughter and community matter as much as curriculum, and that sometimes the best opportunities are the ones we didn’t expect.

Alexander Hamilton holding a 67 Number Balloon.

Turning Sorrow Into Solidarity

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Grief is not something we schedule. It doesn’t wait until we are ready, until our hearts are steady, until we’ve had time to recover from the last loss. It arrives unannounced, sometimes again and again, until it feels like the hits keep coming.

On Friday, a student at our school passed away. I didn’t know him personally, but he was part of our community, an athlete, a part of the flow of our days. And now, he is gone.

It feels overwhelming. Just the day before, I had written about grief for two others. Then, suddenly, another loss—closer, heavier, harder to process. I am sad for him. I am sad for his family. I am sad for the friends who now carry memories that will never be added to. I am sad that he may have felt like he had no one to turn to, no one to talk to.

When grief keeps hitting, it can feel like the ground beneath us is shifting. We wonder how much more we can take, how many more losses we can bear. But maybe the way forward is not to try to carry it alone.

The only way forward is together. We lean on each other, knowing that even the smallest gestures—a smile in the hallway, a kind word, or a simple “I’m here”—can remind someone that they are not alone. In moments like these, presence matters more than perfection. We also allow ourselves to grieve because even if we didn’t know the person closely, their absence still leaves a mark on our community. Their life mattered, and recognizing that truth honors both them and the people who loved them.

We honor the lives lost by remembering them, speaking their names, and carrying compassion in their memory. To honor someone means keeping their story alive, even in small ways, and letting their impact spread beyond the moment of grief. Throughout it all, we choose hope—not because it erases the pain, but because it gives us the strength to continue. Hope helps us believe that tomorrow can be brighter, that healing is possible, and that no one should ever feel invisible. And we remember that God gives us power, as my pastor reminded us yesterday. God can help us get through even the hardest weeks. Faith doesn’t take away the sorrow, but it gives us the courage to keep moving forward.

At the same time, seeking help is not something to be ashamed of. Mental health is not bad—it is part of being human. Seeing a counselor is a wonderful thing. Medications are also a good thing; I take medicine for anxiety myself, and I know it helps. Asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness.

Finally, we must look out for one another. If you see or hear something, say something. Sometimes the smallest act of speaking up can save a life.

Grief teaches us that every life matters, and every absence reshapes the community it touches. When the hits keep coming, the only way through is together—by holding space for sorrow, offering compassion, and reminding each other that no one should feel invisible.

We cannot undo what has happened. But we can choose to make life feel less lonely. Perhaps that is how we get through a week that hurts—by turning sorrow into solidarity, by remembering that even strangers deserve our grief, our respect, and our care, and by choosing to walk forward together, even when the path feels heavy.

If you have been blessed with a son or daughter, take time to tell them how much you love them and how proud you are of them. Each evening, ask about their day and give them the chance to truly talk, to share what’s on their mind, and to ask questions. And don’t forget the hugs—lots of them.

But this call is not only for parents. It is for all of us. Every person has someone they can encourage, someone they can check in on, someone who needs to be reminded they are seen and valued. A kind word to a friend, a text to a colleague, a smile to a stranger—these small acts can make a difference.

Love is not limited to family ties; it is a gift we can extend to anyone.

The Bell

/ Matthew Hamilton / 2 Comments

Today, I rang the bell.

Five years. Forty-three visits to Emory. Countless scans, surgeries, tubes, and prayers. And today, I stood in that familiar hallway, surrounded by the hum of machines and the quiet strength of nurses, and I rang the bell.

They told me I’m cancer free.

Not “no evidence of disease.” Not “stable.” But free.

It’s hard to describe what that means unless you’ve lived in the shadow of it. Unless you’ve sat in waiting rooms where time slows down and hope feels like a fragile thing. Unless you’ve learned to eat through a tube, to speak with effort, to live without taste but still find flavor in life.

Five years ago, I was a different person. I was scared. I was angry. I was grieving the life I thought I’d lost. Without surgery, they told me I’d have six months to live. Even with surgery, the five-year survival rate for my stage and severity was only 38%. I knew the odds. I knew the risks. But I also knew I wasn’t ready to stop fighting.

And someone else believed in me, too.

Dr. Azeem Kaka, my surgeon at Emory, took a chance on me when many others wouldn’t. He told me he presented my case at a national conference, and that several doctors there said they would have passed on surgery due to how advanced and severe it was. But Dr. Kaka didn’t pass. He leaned in. He gave me a shot at life.

Laila Kutan, my nurse practitioner, walked beside me through the hardest parts. She listened. She explained. She cared. And she never treated me like a statistic.

The doctors, nurses, techs, and staff at Emory Hospital have been extraordinary. They didn’t just treat my cancer—they treated me. With dignity. With compassion. With hope.

I had a wife who held my hand through every appointment. I had daughters who gave me reasons to keep showing up. I had friends who showed up when I couldn’t. I had faith—sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, but always there.

I had my mom, who opened her home to me during radiation, who made sure I had a place to rest and recover. I had my sister, who got me anything I needed, who anticipated the things I couldn’t ask for, who carried more than her share of the weight. I had a village—family, friends, colleagues, nurses, strangers—who lifted me when I couldn’t stand.

And I had Michael Owen, a fellow head and neck cancer survivor, who became my cancer coach. He knew the road I was walking because he’d walked it too. He was also a patient of Dr. Kaka, and he helped me navigate the fear, the unknowns, and the long days. His wife, Allison, was a steady presence—kind, encouraging, and always supportive.

I also had Jennifer. We’ve never met in person, but through Facebook, text messages, and phone calls, she became one of my fiercest advocates. She was Dr. Kaka’s first head and neck cancer patient, and she looked out for me during some of my most high-anxiety moments. Her words were a lifeline when I needed them most.

This journey has taken things from me. My ability to eat. My voice, in some ways. My sense of normal. But it’s also given me more than I ever expected.

It gave me perspective. Patience. A deeper love for my family. A calling to teach, to write, to live with intention. It gave me the courage to start over. To become a student teacher. To stand in front of classrooms and talk about government and grit and grace.

It gave me stories. Not all of them easy. But all of them mine.

And today, it gave me a bell.

I rang it for the man I was. For the man I became. For the man who still wakes up every day and chooses to keep going.

I rang it for my daughters, so they’ll know what resilience sounds like.

I rang it for my wife, who never let go.

I rang it for my mom and sister, who carried me through the hardest days.

I rang it for Michael and Allison, for Jennifer, and for every survivor who reached out and said, “You’re not alone.”

I rang it for my best friend, Danny. For every soul I’ve carried with me through this storm.

I rang it for Dr. Kaka, for Laila, and for every person at Emory who saw me as worth saving.

And I rang it for tomorrow. Because now, I get to dream again.

Why Me?

I’ve asked myself this question more times than I can count.

Why am I still here, when others—stronger, kinder, braver—are not? Why did I survive, when people I admired, people who lit up rooms, people who deserved more time… didn’t?

I don’t have an answer. Not a clean one.

I know I had good doctors. I know I had a wife who fought beside me. I know I had daughters who gave me purpose. I know I had faith, even when it flickered. I know I had a support system that never let me fall. But I also know that cancer doesn’t play fair. It doesn’t care how good you are. It doesn’t care how loved you are.

So I carry their names with me. The ones who didn’t make it. The ones who fought just as hard. The ones who deserved their own bell even more than me.

I carry Danny. I carry the stories of patients I met in waiting rooms, whose smiles were full of grace even when their bodies were failing.

I don’t believe I survived because I’m better. I believe I survived because I’m meant to carry something forward. A story. A lesson. A light.

So I write. I teach. I parent. I love. I live.

And I ring the bell for them, too.

I don’t know when my time will come. It might be tomorrow. It might be thirty years from now. Nobody knows.

But I do know one thing.

I survived this.

Eleven Years Without Danny: A Tribute to My Best Friend

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Tomorrow marks eleven years since I lost my best friend, Danny Eiler. He passed away on August 25, 2014, at Emory Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. And even now, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him — his laugh, his advice, his heart for ministry, and the countless memories we built together.

I first met Danny in April 2006 through his girlfriend Cassie, who had just started working at the same lumber treating plant in Ringgold where I had begun two days earlier. The first time I saw Danny, he was visiting Cassie at work. It didn’t take long for Jenn and me to become close friends with both of them. Thursdays became our hangout nights, but honestly, we spent time together most evenings. Danny wasn’t just a friend; he became my accountability partner, someone I could trust with anything.

At the time, Danny was doing youth ministry at a church in LaFayette, and I had the privilege of helping him with that work. Through him, I got to know his family — his mom, dad, and brother — and they welcomed me like one of their own.

When Danny and Cassie got engaged, it felt like a celebration for all of us. I’ll never forget the day he asked me to be his best man. We were riding in Cassie’s car, a Dodge Neon — she was driving, Danny in the passenger seat, Jenn behind Cassie, and me behind Danny. He turned around and asked me, and I was honored beyond words.

We shared so many milestones together. One of the sweetest was when Jenn and I got Liberty, our miniature dachshund, and all four of us were there for it. Liberty became part of our little circle. Sadly, today — August 24 — marks five years since we lost her. It’s hard not to feel the weight of both losses this time of year.

Danny and Cassie’s first son, Cade, was born in June 2008, just ten months after their wedding. I remember the exact moment they told us they were expecting. Jenn and I were driving south on I-75 to visit family when both our phones rang — Cassie called Jenn, and Danny called me. We pulled off near Calhoun, and while they didn’t say it outright, Danny kept calling me “Uncle Matt” and Cassie kept calling Jenn “Aunt Jenn.” We figured it out pretty quickly. Cade was the first child among the four of us, and for a long time, it was just the five of us — Cade included. We took trips together, shared holidays, and Cade felt like a son to Jenn and me.

When Cade was born at the hospital in Ft. Oglethorpe, Jenn and I rushed over to be there. It was only a few miles from our home. Later, when Danny joined The Springs Church in Ringgold to lead youth ministry, Jenn and I followed. Not long after, Danny became the pastor of the church. Watching him grow into that role was inspiring. He had a gift — not just for preaching, but for connecting, for listening, for leading with humility.

In 2012, Jenn and I welcomed our daughter Julie, and Danny and Cassie had their second son, Haddon, in 2013. Life was full. It felt like we were building something lasting — a community, a family, a rhythm.

But in 2012, everything shifted. Danny was diagnosed with Chronic Myeloid Leukemia (CML) — a form of leukemia that, while serious, was considered treatable. We were hopeful. I worked hard to find an organization that could help him get his medication at no cost. It felt like a breakthrough. But as time went on, the treatments didn’t work the way they were supposed to. Danny’s body didn’t respond. The storm we thought we could outrun was gaining strength.

Danny fought with everything he had. For two years, he battled bravely. And on August 25, 2014, he passed away. Jenn and I were with him when he took his last breath — along with Cassie, her father, and another friend. We stayed up the entire night before, knowing the end was near. At 4:30 AM, early Monday morning, Cassie’s father was reading from Romans 8, and the verse that carried us through was Romans 8:18:

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.”

It was a sacred moment—a painful one. But also filled with peace.

Two years later, almost to the day, Jenn and I welcomed our second daughter, Caroline, born on August 26, 2016. Her arrival felt like a quiet gift — a reminder that life continues, even after the deepest loss. That joy can still find its way through the cracks of grief.

And just this past June, I got to share something special with Cade — we went to a Dave Matthews Band concert together in Atlanta. Danny and I had always talked about going, but never got the chance. Sharing that moment with Cade felt like honoring Danny in the best way possible. The music, the memories, the connection — it was all there.

As for Cassie, she’s doing well. She’s now a special education teacher at an elementary school here in town, pouring her heart into the next generation. And in June 2021, she married a wonderful man named Jared. Seeing her find happiness again has been a quiet comfort — a reminder that healing doesn’t erase the past, but it can build something new on top of it.

Danny wasn’t just my best friend. He was a brother, a mentor, a fellow traveler in faith. His life left a mark on mine that will never fade. And while I wish we had more time, I’m grateful for every moment we shared.

I carry him with me — in my teaching, in my parenting, in my faith. And I’ll keep telling his story, because he deserves to be remembered.

Five Years Since Surgery: A Day That Changed Everything

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

The Day That Changed Everything

On July 29, 2020, I underwent a life-saving cancer surgery at Emory Midtown Hospital. It lasted over eight hours, rebuilt my lower jaw, and gave me a future I wasn’t sure I’d have. Yesterday marked five years since that day—a quiet milestone, but one filled with deep gratitude and reflection.

The Days Leading Up

I was admitted on Monday, July 27th, due to dangerously low magnesium and potassium levels. My last real meal—chicken pot pie from the hospital cafeteria—was that afternoon. I didn’t know it then, but it would be my final meal before a feeding tube became my lifeline.

COVID-19 was in full force. Visitor restrictions meant I was alone in the hospital, with FaceTime as my only connection to family. The isolation was heavy, but the nurses became my surrogate visitors—kind, attentive, and quietly heroic.

A Surgery Almost Canceled

The morning of my surgery felt delayed. At first, we thought it was my bloodwork. Later, I learned the real reason: a shortage of nurses. My surgery was nearly canceled.

But Dr. Azeem Kaka—my oncologist and surgeon—advocated for me. He changed his vacation plans to be there. He believed in me when others might not have. That belief saved my life.

Dr. Kaka would later present my case at a national conference. Many doctors told him they would have opted against surgery due to the advanced nature of my cancer. Without it, I had 6–8 months to live.

The Procedure

Sometime after 9:00 AM, the surgery began. I don’t remember it, but I was told it lasted over eight hours. The tumor—over 5 cm—was removed from the base of my mouth. My lower jaw was rebuilt using bone from my left leg and a skin graft from my thigh.

Dr. Kaka was only 35 years old. I still marvel at the complexity and courage it took to perform such a procedure.

Recovery and Isolation

I woke up in the ICU, swollen and disoriented. I spent two days there before receiving my feeding tube on Friday, July 31st. 

No visitors. No hugs. Just screens and voices. But the nurses—those angels in scrubs—made sure I never felt completely alone.

I remained in the hospital until August 6th, then went to my mom’s home in Columbus to recover. In September and October, I completed 32 sessions of radiation.

Five Years Later

Yesterday, I spent the day quietly at home with my daughters. I took Julie to an appointment. It was ordinary—and that made it extraordinary.

I also received a text from a friend—another survivor of head and neck cancer, also treated by Dr. Kaka. She introduced me to someone newly diagnosed, someone who reminded her of me. He was diagnosed and had surgery all within the last six weeks and is battling anxiety, as I am.

We texted. Then we talked. On the very anniversary of my surgery, I got to tell someone: You are not alone.

Why I Write This

I write to remember. I write to honor. I write to remind others—especially those facing the same diagnosis—that there is life after the valley. There is hope. There is connection.

Five years ago, I was given a second chance. Today, I use it to walk alongside others.

If you or someone you love is facing head and neck cancer, or any cancer diagnosis, know this: you are not alone. There are survivors, advocates, and friends waiting to walk with you.

A Quiet Light: Remembering Ms. Joy Camp

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Yesterday, our dear friend Cassie lost her grandmother, Ms. Joy Camp, at the age of 88. For those who knew her, Ms. Camp wasn’t just a presence—she was a quiet light. She gave generously, welcomed warmly, and lived with a grace that didn’t seek attention but left a lasting impression.

Cassie and her family have always been like family to us. Through her, we came to know and love Ms. Camp.

One of my most vivid memories of Ms. Camp is from Thanksgiving Day, 2012. Our daughter, Julie, had just been born on November 12th—too young to travel to be with our families over long distances. Ms. Camp opened her home to us without hesitation. That day, her table became our table. Her kindness became our comfort. It was one of those rare moments where someone’s generosity quietly brightens your life.

We shared other meals at her house—Easter lunch one year, casual visits, and the annual Fall Get-Together hosted by Cassie’s father next door. There was always a bonfire, a hayride, and Ms. Camp helping behind the scenes, making sure everything felt just right. I also remember watching Alabama and Michigan play college football in the Rose Bowl at her house once. Cassie was a Michigan fan, while Jennifer was an Alabama fan. She didn’t need to be the center of attention—she simply made sure everyone else felt seen. 

One moment that still makes me smile: running into her at Walgreens right next to the bank, just before Valentine’s Day one year. She was picking out gifts for Cade and Haddon, Cassie’s boys. That moment said everything about her—thoughtful, intentional, always giving.

For many years, Ms. Camp worked at Northwest Georgia Bank as the secretary to the bank president before it became FirstBank. I’d see her there sometimes—always composed, always gracious. She was part of the fabric of Ringgold—steady, familiar, kind.

I never had the chance to meet her husband, Cassie’s grandfather, who passed away before we ever knew Cassie. But I imagine he would have been proud of the life she lived and the love she gave.

Ms. Camp wasn’t loud about her legacy—but it echoes in the lives she touched. In Cassie’s strength. In Cade and Haddon’s memories. In the memories we carry from her table, and her quiet acts of care.

We’ll miss her. But we’ll carry her with us—in stories, in traditions, and in the way we give to others, just as she once did for us.

Thank you, Ms. Camp. You gave us more than meals—you gave us belonging.

The Commissioner and His Grandson

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

We picked up our girls from Columbus on Friday. They’ve been with my mom having summer fun for two weeks. On Saturday, we took a detour home through Eufaula. Saturday’s drive home wasn’t just a route—it was a memory unfolding mile by mile. After lunch with Jennifer’s family in Eufaula, we chose Highway 431 instead of the usual path to Ringgold. That stretch from Seale to Anniston, winding through rural Alabama towns like Seale, Crawford, Opelika, Lafayette, Roanoke, Munford, and Centre, felt like traveling through time. In Centre, near Lake Weiss, we turned back towards north Georgia. 

We even detoured near Anniston to show my daughters Camp Mac—a place that once held my summers as a camper and later as a counselor. Though the camp was prepping for its final 10-Day Term of the summer, and we didn’t stop officially, the roads and signage whispered old stories. My nephew James, now a counselor himself, carries that legacy forward.

But what stirred my heart most on that drive was passing through Russell County—especially near Seale and Crawford, where my grandparents’ farm stood just off Highway 169. Growing up, that stretch of land was my second home. And my grandfather, a farmer and county commissioner for 24 years, was my compass.

He taught me how to drive—starting on dirt roads at age nine. And even after I earned my license, he still corrected my driving with steady commentary from the front passenger seat. Not so much a backseat driver, but always present, always teaching.

On Sundays, we attended Seale United Methodist Church together. A congregation of 20 or 25 on a good day. Most Sundays, I was the only youth—or one of two or three. Yet it felt whole. Sacred in its simplicity.

He farmed cotton and soybeans when I was young—no animals by then, but plenty of work. I remember riding atop the cotton picker, delivering harvests to the cotton gin, and playing in the wagons filled to the brim—always reminded to stay alert so we wouldn’t smother under the weight. Later, when the crops ended, he planted pine trees for future harvest, thinking ahead, always rooted.

There were no electronics in our world back then, but it didn’t matter. We had fun: honest, muddy, imaginative fun. And once a year, he hosted county barbecues at the farm—whole pigs roasted and a family secret recipe for Brunswick stew served to the county workers. During election years, we might have a barbecue as a campaign event, humble and hearty. I can remember even helping him campaign outside the Crawford Volunteer Fire Station and Rainbow Foods (Grocery Store).

I became his driver, too. To the courthouse in Phenix City, to Montgomery, even up Highway 431 to Huntsville for a state county commissioners’ meeting. It was on that same route—now traveled with my wife and daughters—that memories stirred, quiet and bittersweet.

He was born March 9, 1928. I arrived fifty years and six days later. He passed in May 2004, just two months after Jennifer and I got married. He never got to meet our girls, which still aches. They won’t ride cotton wagons. They won’t sit beside him at the tiny church pew in Seale. They won’t hear his voice from the passenger seat reminding them when to brake.

But they carry him anyway. In my stories, in stories shared by my mom. In the routes I choose. In the grit and grace he taught me.

In Memory:

This story is dedicated to my grandfather, Claude Parkman, Russell County Commissioner from 1972 to 1996, farmer, mentor, and passenger-seat coach. He taught me how to drive, how to campaign, and how to listen to the land.

Though he never met his great-granddaughters, I carry him with me every time we pass through Seale, turn onto Highway 169, or find ourselves drifting down the same stretch of 431 we once rode together. His story lives on in the roads we travel, the work we do, and the family we build.

An article from April 1993 in the “Alabama Extra” section of the Columbus, GA newspaper.

Seale United Methodist Church. I took this picture in December, 2014.

Faith After the Fire

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Surviving cancer, losing a friend, and learning to live with the questions.

I still remember the day my best friend called with the news. He had chronic myeloid leukemia—CML, the doctors said. But they also said it was treatable. Manageable. The kind of cancer you could live with. We clung to that word: treatable. It felt like a promise.

He passed away in 2014. He was 30. I still remember the funeral—how surreal it felt to say goodbye to someone who had so much life left to live. He had been diagnosed a few years earlier, and we all believed he’d beat it. CML was supposed to be manageable. The medications were promising. But for reasons no one could explain, they didn’t work for him. His body didn’t respond the way the textbooks said it should.

He would have turned 41 this past January.

I was diagnosed in 2020, at 42. Stage 4A cancer in my head and neck. The tumor was buried deep at the base of my mouth. The doctor didn’t sugarcoat it—without surgery, I had six to eight months. Even with treatment, the five-year survival rate was less than 50%.

In three months, I’ll reach that five-year mark.

I think about him often. About how our stories diverged. About how I’m still here, and he’s not. And I wonder—not with bitterness, but with reverence—why?

I’ve felt tremendous survivor’s guilt.

Why did God spare me, while taking him? Why am I still here, when others—good people, young people, people with families—are not?

After Danny was diagnosed, we all fought so hard. His medications were staggeringly expensive, and I remember reaching out to a CML foundation, desperate to find help. I ran a Facebook page to keep people updated on his journey. Every post was a prayer in disguise—hope wrapped in words.

On August 25, 2014, I was at his bedside when he took his last breath.

Two years later, almost to the day, my youngest daughter Caroline was born. August 26, 2016. Life arriving in the shadow of death. A reminder that grief and joy often share the same space.

I did a lot for Danny, though I never saw it that way. I would have traded places with him in a heartbeat. After he passed, my wife and I tried to be there for Cassie—his wife, our best friend—and their two boys. His youngest was just eight months old. His oldest, Cade, was six. I’ve tried to be a steady presence in Cade’s life over the years. We even went to a Dave Matthews Band concert together recently. He’s seventeen now. I still see Danny in his eyes.

When I was diagnosed in 2020, the roles reversed. I was the one in need. And God showed up—not in a miracle cure, but in people. Friends mowed our lawn, fixed things around the house, cleaned, donated money. Cancer is expensive, even with insurance. But love showed up in practical ways. In casseroles and yardwork. In prayers and presence.

I was released from the hospital on August 6, 2020. My wife and daughters stayed with Cassie and the boys for a few months while I recovered. That’s the kind of bond we had. Still have.

Cassie remarried in 2021. I was the best man in her and Danny’s wedding. Now, her husband Jared is one of my closest friends. Life is strange like that—grief doesn’t erase love; it reshapes it.

Danny’s life continues to shape mine. In how I show up. In how I listen. In how I love.

I still ask God why.

Why did Danny die at 30, with two boys who needed their dad? Why did the medicine fail him, when it was supposed to work? Why did I survive, when the odds were stacked against me?

I don’t have answers. I’ve stopped pretending I ever will.

But I’ve learned that faith after the fire doesn’t mean never asking the questions. It means asking them anyway—through tears, through silence, through clenched fists—and still choosing to believe that God is near.

I used to think faith was about certainty. Now I think it’s about presence. God didn’t explain Danny’s death to me. But He sat with me in the grief. He didn’t promise I’d survive. But He sent people to carry me when I couldn’t walk on my own.

Faith after the fire is quieter. Less about declarations, more about endurance. It’s the kind of faith that shows up in hospital rooms and funeral homes. In the way Cade still laughs like his dad. In the way that Haddon is now starting to look exactly like his brother and dad. In the way Caroline was born two years after we said goodbye. In the way love keeps showing up, even when the story doesn’t go the way we prayed it would.

I don’t know why God spares some and not others. But I do know this: every breath is a gift. And I want to spend mine loving well, grieving honestly, and living in a way that honors the ones who didn’t get the chance.

Danny’s story didn’t end when he died. It lives on in me. And maybe, in you too.

If you’ve lost someone, if you’ve faced the fire and wondered why you’re still standing—this is for you. Not to give you answers. But to remind you that your questions are holy. That your survival is not a mistake. And that even in the ashes, faith can rise.

Third Day: A Journey of Music, Faith, and Friendship

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Thursday, June 19, 2025

This was originally posted on Facebook and later added to my new blog.

Some bands provide a soundtrack to our lives. Third Day helped write the story of mine. This is how their music—and the people I met along the way—shaped my journey of faith and friendship.

When I was in college at Georgia Southern University in the late 1990s and early 2000s, I became involved in a wonderful student ministry called the Wesley Foundation. Within that ministry, I made some lifelong friends. We may not see each other often, but those are strong bonds that still hold.

Growing up, I didn’t listen to much Christian music—but that all changed in college. Our group went to a lot of concerts (which may help explain why it took me five years to graduate instead of four, lol). The first Christian artist I really connected with was Steven Curtis Chapman, followed closely by Third Day. The first Christian CD I ever bought was Steven Curtis Chapman’s Greatest Hits. The second? Conspiracy No. 5 by Third Day. For some reason, that album has always been seen as their “different” one. I liked it from the start.

I can’t recall my very first Third Day concert, but I do remember one show in Savannah, Georgia in 1999. I don’t remember the exact venue, but I’ll never forget what happened: that night, I became a believer. Mac invited the crowd to close their eyes, repeat a prayer, and raise our hands if we accepted Jesus. I was too shy to raise my hand—but I did accept Him.

Sometime around that same period, I remember going to Lifeway Christian Bookstore on Abercorn Street. Third Day dropped by for a meet and greet. I don’t recall getting any autographs, but I do remember Mac walking right by me—and shaking his hand.

Over the years, I saw Third Day live more than 25 times before their “retirement” in 2018. I caught shows in Alabama, Georgia, Florida, and Tennessee. I was a member of their paid fan club, Wired, for as long as it existed, which gave me tons of chances to meet the guys. They were always kind and humble.

I was also part of their core fan group—the Gomers. My Gomer name was “Churchboa.” One unforgettable show was at the River Center in Columbus, Georgia. Thanks to my Wired membership, I landed close seats. The opener, DecembeRadio, brought me on stage to play cowbell. At that same show, I met Karen and Mike—two awesome people who even asked for my autograph. We’re still friends today.

Another memorable moment was with my college friend Patrick at a show in Atlanta, likely at Lakewood Amphitheatre. Afterward, we couldn’t find my car. Turns out we exited into the wrong parking lot. Security eventually let us back in, and we ended up walking behind the stage area—right past the tour buses.

There was also the time Jenn and I went to Rock the Universe in Orlando. She had hurt her ankle the week before, but we didn’t cancel—we just went, and I pushed her around in a wheelchair. We had a blast.

In Atlanta, at the Alpharetta Amphitheater (I think), I saw them again on the Revelation tour. I ran into Karen and Mike again at the meet and greet. All three of us made it onto the Live Revelations DVD. You can barely see me due to the lighting—but I’m there.

One last vivid memory: I attended the Dove Awards in Nashville—the year Steven Curtis Chapman won Artist of the Year for This Moment. I bumped into “Mama” and “Aunt” Gomer there. (Mama Gomer, I believe, was the one who originally came up with the Gomer fan group.) I was also at the second-to-last Farewell Tour show at the Ryman.

Later, when my friend Danny was hospitalized at Emory, the band called to lift his spirits—thanks to a mutual friend who also happened to be a Georgia State Representative. I was a little jealous that he got to speak to them, but mostly I was just grateful.

I say all this to express just how deeply Third Day has touched my life. Their music has supported me through different seasons—from the southern rock vibe to the worship anthems and even the raw, gritty tracks. They’ve done a bit of everything. And now, with their reunion tour just announced, I couldn’t be more thrilled. It’ll be the first time in over a decade the original four members will tour together—since Tai and David missed the 2018 farewell tour.

Not bad at all for a band inducted into the Georgia Music Hall of Fame back in 2009. I’m just hoping to hear How’s Your Head at the Atlanta reunion show.