Parenting

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.

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.

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.

The Ropes We Hold

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

I keep thinking about the rope. The one the girls at Camp Mystic held onto as the river rose around them. A simple rope—meant to guide them across a footbridge—became, in their final moments, a lifeline. A prayer. A thread between this world and the next.

In two weeks, my daughters—ages 12 and 8—will head off to Camp Kesem, held this year at Camp Pisgah near Brevard, North Carolina. It’s a camp for children who’ve had a parent with cancer. A place of healing, laughter, and belonging. Their counselors are college students from the Western Carolina University chapter—young people who give up part of their summer to create joy for kids who’ve known too much sorrow too soon. I’m grateful for it. And I’m uneasy.

Because the girls lost in Texas were the same age as mine. Because last fall, the mountains near Brevard were battered by Hurricane Helene. Because I know, too well, that life doesn’t always give warnings.

I’ve read the headlines. I’ve seen the photos of the Guadalupe River swollen and angry, of parents waiting for news no parent should ever have to hear. I’ve read about the counselors who sang hymns and held hands as the floodwaters came. And I’ve sat with the weight of it all—because it’s impossible not to imagine my daughters in their place.

How could this happen? Why them?

These are the questions that echo in the silence after tragedy. They don’t come with answers. But they come with weight. And maybe, in writing, I’m trying to carry a small piece of that weight with the families who now face a world forever changed.

There’s a kind of sacredness in summer camps. They’re places where kids become a little more themselves—where they sing off-key, stay up too late, and find courage in the dark. Camp is supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be joy.

And yet, even there, the world breaks in.

I don’t know what to do with that. But I do know this: when I pack my daughters’ bags this year, I’ll do it with a heart full of prayer. I’ll trust the counselors. I’ll trust the weather. I’ll trust the rope.

Because parenting is, in the end, an act of letting go. And faith—real faith—is holding on to love even when the waters rise.

If you feel moved to help in the wake of this tragedy, please give thoughtfully. Sadly, in times of grief, some take advantage of others’ generosity. Be sure to donate through trusted organizations. The American Red Cross has opened shelters and reunification centers in the affected areas, and the Kerr County Flood Relief Fund is providing direct support to families impacted by the flooding.

For guidance on how to stay safe during flash floods, visit the National Weather Service Flood Safety page.