music

A Song for Cade

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

I’ve never had a son. God gave me two incredible daughters — bright, funny, compassionate girls who fill my life with more joy than I ever deserved. But somewhere along the way, without any official title or biological claim, I found myself with something that felt a lot like sons. Two boys who weren’t mine, but who somehow became part of my heart anyway: Cade and his younger brother, Haddon.

I’ve known Cade since before he took his first breath. I was at the hospital the night he was born — waiting, praying, hoping. Danny, my best friend, was about to become a father, and I was about to meet the little boy who would change all of our lives. When Cade finally arrived, I remember thinking, This kid is going to matter. He’s going to leave a mark.

I had no idea then just how true that would be.

Danny wasn’t just my best friend — he was a pastor. A man of deep faith, quiet strength, and a gentleness that made people feel safe. He loved God, he loved his family, and he loved music — especially Dave Matthews Band. He and I shared that love, and it became one of the threads that tied our friendship together.

When we lost Danny in 2014 — far too young, far too soon — the world shifted. There’s no manual for how to help a child navigate the kind of loss that even adults struggle to understand. But I knew one thing: I wasn’t going anywhere. So I started what I called “man days.” I’d pick Cade up, and we’d go do something fun. Nothing complicated — just time, presence, laughter, distraction, connection. I wasn’t trying to fill Danny’s shoes. No one could. I was just trying to make sure Cade never felt like he was walking alone.

And then life, in its strange and beautiful way, brought Jared into the picture. A man who didn’t try to replace Danny, but honored him by loving Cade with humility and steadiness. Watching Jared step into that role — not loudly, not forcefully, but faithfully — has been one of the quiet miracles of this story. Cade has been blessed with two fathers: one who shaped his beginning, and one who helped guide his becoming.

And of course, there’s Cassie. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone carry so much weight with so much grace. She walked through fire to give her boys stability, love, and a home that didn’t crumble under the weight of grief. She is one of Jenn’s and my closest friends, and she deserves every ounce of honor that comes her way. Cade’s strength didn’t come from nowhere — it came from her.

Last Friday, Cade and I drove to Alpharetta to see the Dave Matthews Band — one of our shared favorites, and one of Danny’s too. This was my sixth time seeing them, Cade’s second. Last year’s show was a wild adventure — thunder, traffic, chaos, and a moment that felt like a message from heaven. I wrote about that night, because some stories insist on being told.

This year felt different. Calmer. Fuller. Like a chapter closing and another opening at the same time.

And then it happened.

They played that song — Danny’s favorite DMB song. One of my top five, a song that’s carried memories for years, even if it wasn’t the one I’d put at the very top. And when those opening notes started, something in the air shifted. I didn’t look at Cade, and he didn’t look at me — we didn’t need to. The moment spoke for itself. It felt like a quiet nudge from heaven, the kind only music can deliver. A pastor’s favorite song, rising up into the night sky while his son — now grown, now stepping into his own calling — stood just a few feet away. A song for a milestone Danny should have lived to see.

Tomorrow, Cade graduates from high school with honors. Honors. After everything he’s walked through. After every mountain he’s had to climb before he even reached adulthood. And now he’s heading to Reinhardt University with a calling on his life — he wants to be a pastor. Just like his dad.

Legacy isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper. A nudge. A song. A calling passed from father to son, carried through grief, strengthened by love, and confirmed in moments like the one we had Friday night.

Last night, we celebrated Cade and his girlfriend Lily — who graduates today from the same high school where I did my student teaching. Watching the two of them grow together, support each other, and cheer each other on has been something special. They’re good for each other. They’re good to each other.

We didn’t give toasts at the party, but I had one ready. I’ll share part of it here, because it belongs in this story:

“Tonight is special. It’s one of those moments where time slows down just long enough for you to look around and realize how far someone has come. Cade, your dad was my best friend. I stood beside him as the best man at his wedding. Losing him was a heartbreak none of us were ready for — and certainly not you. But the way you’ve carried his legacy… the way you’ve grown into a young man he would recognize and be proud of… that’s something extraordinary.”

Cade has walked through more than most people twice his age. And yet he stands here — steady, kind, humble, strong. Not hardened by loss, but shaped by it. Not defined by grief, but deepened by it.

I am proud of him. His mother is proud of him. Jared is proud of him. And his father — the man who left us too soon — is proud of him in ways we can only imagine.

Tomorrow, when Cade walks across that stage, it won’t just be a diploma he’s carrying. It will be legacy. It will be resilience. It will be love — the kind that spans years, friendships, families, and even heaven.

Cade, if you ever read this: I love you, kid. I always have. I always will. You’re not my son, not by blood or by name — but you’ve been a part of my heart since the night you were born. And watching you become the man you are today has been one of the greatest honors of my life.

Here’s to the next chapter. Here’s to the songs we’ll keep singing. Here’s to the legacy you carry and the future you’re building.

Congratulations, Cade.

Your dad would be so proud.

And so am I.

An Ode to Jennifer: Twenty-One Years of Grace and Grit

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

On March 27, 2025, Jennifer and I celebrated our 21st wedding anniversary. It’s a milestone that, on paper, looks neat and round. But in the rearview mirror, it’s a winding road full of real-life moments—some joyful, some impossible, all meaningful.

Jennifer is not one for loud celebrations. Her strength lives in consistency, in quiet acts of love, and in showing up. And for more than two decades, she has done just that—not only for me, but for our daughters, our family, and countless others through her work.

We first met back in June 2002, thanks to a shared friendship between her aunt and my mom. Jennifer had just graduated from the University of Alabama at Birmingham, and I had just finished at Georgia Southern. Her family was visiting her aunt in Columbus, Georgia—who, by coincidence, had been the librarian at my high school. She always thought Jennifer and I should meet.

That meeting happened over Mexican food and Uno cards. From there, a long-distance friendship grew into a relationship. Our first official date was on her birthday—November 4, 2002—a concert in Birmingham with Third Day, Michael W. Smith, and Max Lucado. A year later, on a beach in Panama City near sunset, I asked her to marry me.

Since then, life has brought us so many changes. In November 2012, we welcomed our first daughter, and in August 2016, our second. In 2020, life took a hard turn when I was diagnosed with cancer right in the heart of the COVID-19 pandemic. Hospital restrictions kept Jennifer from staying close, but she and my mom found a hotel near Emory. When I was discharged on August 6, she returned with the girls and took on single parenting for three months while I recovered and completed radiation. That time was hard—but she remained unwavering.

She has driven me home from many appointments, sat through procedures, and stood beside me through anesthesia and uncertainty. Today, July 9, 2025, she was once again there—my driver and companion—as I had my feeding tube replaced at Emory Midtown. They didn’t end up giving twilight anesthesia, but they might have, and she was ready either way. That’s Jennifer: prepared, present, unshaken.

And she’s done all this while pursuing her own growth. In 2023, she completed her Master’s degree through Simmons University in Boston. She’ll be eligible for her licensure exam in May 2026. She’s worked for the same company for 21 years, starting at Lookout Mountain Community Services (now Bridge Health). Her roles have spanned from Case Management to Director of Housing, and now she’s a Substance Abuse and Mental Health Counselor. For the past two years, while I’ve been back in school earning my own Master’s degree, she has helped carry our household financially.

She’s also my concert companion—and a devoted fan of Keith Urban. We’ve seen him live over 12 times (he’s her celebrity boyfriend, or so she says). And through every show, every hospital visit, every parenting challenge, and all of life’s twists—she’s been steady. She’s been grace.

Behind every story I’ve written, every lesson I’ve prepared, every step I’ve taken—Jennifer has been there. Not in the spotlight, but holding the rope when the waters rose.

This post is for her. For 21 years of grit and gentleness. For the love that holds a family together—sometimes quietly, always fully.

Thunder, Traffic, and a Song for Danny

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

I pulled into the parking space sometime early this morning—drenched, exhausted, and honestly, a little delirious. My ears were still humming from the music, my clothes still damp from the Georgia storm, and the interstate still echoed in my bones. But as I sat there for a beat before cutting the engine, I felt something else too: peace. The kind that only comes after a long, winding journey that somehow lands exactly where it needed to.

The day had started in typical Matt fashion—rushed, overcommitted, a little chaotic, and filled with more love than logistics should allow. I picked up my best friend, then we swung down to Dalton to meet Cade’s friend. Cade isn’t my nephew by blood, but I’ve been Uncle Matt to him since the day he was born. I was there at the hospital, holding him in his first hours on this earth—the son of my best friends, Danny (my brother from another mother) and his bride Cassie, a bond sealed long before either of us had kids in mind. Cade, in true Danny fashion, was on a mission trip and was waiting south of Atlanta. So we took off to go get him.

Danny never made it to see Cade turn 17. Cancer—CML—took him too soon. He and I had always said we’d see Dave Matthews Band together someday. It was a shared soundtrack—the music that got us through long nights, big questions, and road trips that didn’t need a destination. We never got that concert. But last night, I went with Cade—his son—along with Cade’s stepdad—a good man who stepped into big shoes with kindness—and Cade’s buddy. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow it felt even more right.

Getting there wasn’t easy. Atlanta traffic was Atlanta traffic—on steroids. What should’ve been a few hours turned into a tangled maze of brake lights and exit ramps. After the show, we retraced those same miles in reverse: south to drop off Cade, north again to get everyone else home. Somewhere in there, the heavens opened up.

The rain came sideways—the kind that feels biblical—with lightning cracking the sky like punctuation. As if nature itself had something to say.

And yet… in the middle of all that chaos, we stood under the Georgia sky—soaked, smiling, swaying to a setlist that felt like it had been chosen just for us.

Granted, Cade and I did get into a friendly fuss—he insists Dave Matthews Band isn’t a jam band. I reminded him—with evidence—that some of their live versions could legally qualify as time zones. We agreed to disagree, mostly. Even if some of our favorite songs didn’t make the setlist, it was hard to argue with the ones that did.

I looked over at Cade, tall now and almost grown, and I swear I saw Danny there too. Not in a ghostly way. More like the way Cade sang certain lyrics. The way he laughed at something I said. The way he just was.

Meanwhile, the three people directly in front of us spent most of the show harvesting crops on their phones. Farmville. In 2025. At a Dave Matthews Band concert. I don’t know what they were growing, but I hope it was worth missing “Dive In” or “Captain.” Judging by their sudden attention, the only songs they came for were “Ants Marching” and “Crash Into Me.”

I thought about how much Danny would’ve loved this night. Not just the band, but seeing his son out in the world—living, laughing, feeling joy. I thought about how music carries memory—how certain chords and lyrics can hold grief and gratitude in the same breath.

And maybe that’s what last night really was: a way of keeping a promise I never got to say out loud. A way of saying, “You’re not forgotten. We still carry you—with every song, every laugh, every long drive through thunder and rain.”

It wasn’t easy getting there. It wasn’t convenient. But love rarely is.

Sometimes it looks like five hours of traffic and a tank full of gas. Sometimes it sounds like a guitar riff breaking through the storm. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—it feels like standing in a crowd with a seventeen-year-old boy whose dad should’ve been there… but somehow was.

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.