Friendship

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.