Personal Reflection

A Story for Aunt Nancy

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Yesterday, we gathered at Shades Mountain Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, to honor the life of my sweet Aunt Nancy. That church wasn’t just a place she attended — it was a defining part of her identity. She joined in 1952 at just five years old, and by the time she passed, she held the longest consecutive membership in the church’s 115‑year history. Nearly seventy‑four years of worship, service, friendships, and memories. I learned she had experienced every building the church ever called home, a living thread running through its generations.

I had been to Shades Mountain before, but it had been many years. Walking through its doors again for her service felt both familiar and heavy with meaning. The sanctuary was filled with love — the kind you can feel even before you see it. The hour before the service was devoted to visitation, and hundreds of people came to offer their sympathies. It wasn’t just her church family. Her work family came too — colleagues from nearly sixty years in the insurance world, where she served as an underwriter for several Birmingham companies. Their presence spoke volumes about the impact she had on the people she worked with every day.

But the heart of this story — the part that struck me most — was her “chosen family.” This remarkable circle of friends stood by her through every season of life. Their devotion to her was beyond anything I could have imagined. I had met some of them over the years but seeing them again reminded me how rare and beautiful it is to have people who love you so fiercely, not because they share your blood, but because they share your heart. They planned every detail of the service with such care and precision that it felt like a final gift to her.

Aunt Nancy’s life at Shades Mountain was full and vibrant. For many years, she headed up the church’s singles ministry — a group that became a lifeline for countless people. One story shared yesterday made everyone smile: in one year alone, that ministry celebrated twelve weddings. Twelve couples who found love, community, and connection under her leadership. That’s the kind of legacy most people only dream of leaving.

She was also a devoted member of the choir, lending her voice to worship week after week. The choir took her on trips across the country and even overseas, experiences she treasured and talked about often. Music was one of the ways she expressed her faith, and she poured her heart into it.

And then there was her gift for celebration. Aunt Nancy was a wedding planner, and she loved being part of life’s happiest moments. She showed up for people — not just for big milestones, but for the small joys too. She never missed an opportunity to attend events for the people she loved, including my own daughters’ birthday parties. Her presence always made those moments feel a little more special.

It was also comforting to see my cousins again. It had only been five days since we gathered for Uncle Mike’s service, but even in grief, being together mattered. We said it last Friday, and we said it again yesterday — we cannot keep waiting for funerals to bring us together. Family deserves more than that.

With Aunt Nancy’s passing, an entire generation on my father’s side is now gone. My grandparents passed in 1998 and 1999. My father died in December 2021. Uncle Mike followed in November 2025. And now Aunt Nancy, on Saturday, January 10, 2026. It’s a strange, heavy realization — one that makes the world feel a little emptier and the memories a little more precious.

But yesterday wasn’t just about loss. It was about legacy. It was about a woman who lived faithfully, loved deeply, and built a community around her that stood strong until her very last day. It was about the people she touched — family, coworkers, lifelong friends — all gathering to say that her life mattered.

And it did. More than she ever knew.

From Patten Chapel Road to Lifelong Impact: Honoring Mike Hamilton

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Uncle Mike and Julie in August, 2013.

My beloved uncle, Mike Hamilton, was truly one of a kind. He lived in Birmingham, Alabama, and was my dad’s older brother. He passed away on Sunday, November 23rd after a brief illness. In March, he celebrated his 85th birthday—a milestone that reflected not just years lived, but a life filled with kindness, generosity, and devotion to family.

Mike and his beloved wife, Ouida, meant so much to us. They had always been close to our family, but after my older sister’s passing in 1989, they became even closer, taking us under their wing in ways that left a lasting impression. While many people say a certain family member is “the best,” Mike truly was that person. I never saw him raise his voice or lose his temper. He was always willing to do anything for anybody, and he did it with grace.

Mike and Ouida were inseparable until her passing in 2015. One of my favorite memories comes from a trip to Europe in July of 1989. Ouida joined us, and she took hundreds of pictures with a new camera. Somehow a setting had been switched that made every photo panoramic, which meant developing the film was much more expensive than expected. After hearing the news of Uncle Mike’s passing on Sunday, I called my sister, and she reminded me of that story. What stood out most was how Uncle Mike didn’t bat an eye at the extra cost—he simply made sure those memories were preserved. That was the kind of man he was: generous, steady, and always putting others first.

Some of my fondest memories are of summers spent at their house on Patten Chapel Road. I was a camper and later a counselor at Camp Mac in Munford, Alabama, for many years. Since Birmingham was close by, we would stay at Mike and Ouida’s the night before camp check-in. Those evenings were filled with long conversations about whatever new thing was happening. Mike loved technology—he was one of the first people I knew to use TiVo, long before DVRs became common. I remember watching The Fugitive starring Harrison Ford at their house, and during the famous train wreck scene, the sound system was so powerful that the den floor shook beneath us.

After Ouida passed away in 2015, Mike remained active and engaged with life, but his dedication to work and service had long been a defining part of who he was. For many years he ran Hamilton Oxygen Company, and he also served as executive director of the Alabama Durable Medical Equipment Association, where he tirelessly advocated for the home medical equipment industry. His commitment was recognized just this past May in Washington, D.C., when he received the Mel Mixon Legislative Advocacy Award—a fitting honor for a lifetime of service.

Even with his busy schedule, Mike always made time for family. He came to many of Caroline’s and Julie’s birthday celebrations, alongside his wonderful sister, my Aunt Nancy. Though I regret not seeing him and Aunt Nancy as often in recent years, I hope to remedy that with her.

Mike bore a striking resemblance to former Vice President Dick Cheney, who also passed away earlier this month—a fun fact that always made us smile. But more than anything, Mike resembled the very best qualities of humanity: patience, generosity, and love.

Now, I take comfort in knowing that Mike and Ouida are rejoicing together again in heaven, reunited after ten years apart. Their legacy of love and devotion continues to live on in our family, and I will always cherish the memories of my uncle, who never failed to show up, never failed to care, and never failed to love.

Julie was nine months old and was meeting Uncle Mike for the first time.

Julie’s Legacy: A Sister Remembered, A Family Rooted

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Today would have been my older sister Julie’s 54th birthday. Tragically, we lost her the night before Thanksgiving in 1989, just one day after her 18th birthday. I was 11 years old, in 5th grade, and my younger sister was only 7. That year, Thanksgiving fell on November 23rd, and instead of celebrating, we found ourselves grieving a loss that changed our family forever.

I remember that Wednesday night vividly. I was staying at my grandparents’ house, just a few miles down Sandfort Road from our own home. Their house was the old family home, with parts more than a century old. The property had once held a little store and a cotton gin, surrounded by fields where my grandfather planted cotton and soybeans before later converting them to pine trees. Those fields were where he taught me to drive at the age of nine. That house was more than a home—it was a place where generations had lived, worked, and gathered. I spent countless weekends and summer nights there, always choosing to sleep on the sofa in the den, a space converted from a covered porch.

That Wednesday afternoon, I helped my grandmother prepare dishes we would carry to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. But late that night, she woke me from the sofa, upset, and told me we needed to go back home. When we arrived, my mother embraced me tightly and told me Julie had been in an accident. From that moment, everything became a whirlwind.

The next day, Thanksgiving, people poured into our home to offer condolences. My grandfather, a county commissioner, seemed to know half the county, and their presence was both overwhelming and comforting. I remember sitting at the piano, playing “We Three Kings” over and over, trying to distract myself from the grief that hung in the air.

Julie was beautiful inside and out. She had just begun her freshman year at Auburn University a couple of months earlier and had pledged Phi Mu. She was full of promise, and losing her at such a young age was devastating. Yet even in that loss, I knew one thing: if I ever had a daughter, I would name her Julie, to honor my sister. Years later, when our first child was born, we chose her name without hesitation. Today, my daughter Julie—and her younger sister Caroline—bring joy and light into our lives, carrying forward the love that my sister embodied.

I often wonder what Julie would have become. She had modeled during her teenage years, and her future seemed wide open. I wonder what she would think of her namesake, and of Caroline too. One of my earliest memories of her is a family trip to Disney World when I was about four years old, before my younger sister was born. Epcot was still being built then, and Julie’s smiles made the trip great. She was always smiling. Perhaps that is the biggest thing I remember about her, her smiles.

Though Julie has been gone for 36 years, her memory is woven into the fabric of my life—through the fields where my grandfather taught me, the meals prepared with my grandmother, the piano keys I pressed to cope with grief, and most of all, through the joy of my daughters. Julie is terribly missed, but her legacy lives on in the love we continue to share.

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.

Can One Honest Voice Still Make a Difference?

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

That question echoed through the Senate chamber in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and it still echoes—in classrooms, hospitals, and quiet corners where people stand up for truth, dignity, and hope. Jefferson Smith’s filibuster wasn’t just about a boys’ camp. It was about integrity in the face of power, and the belief that one person, armed with conviction and courage, could still influence change.

I’ve been reflecting on this a lot lately. As a teacher, a writer, and someone who has walked through the valley of cancer, I’ve observed how fragile hope can be—and how powerful it becomes when shared. Whether it’s a student finding their voice, a patient advocating for better care, or a citizen daring to speak truth in a noisy world, an honest voice still matters. It always has.

Over the past two days, I’ve been watching Mr. Smith Goes to Washington with my American Government students. It’s a black-and-white film from 1939, but it somehow feels more relevant than ever. In a world that often feels noisy, cynical, and divided, Jefferson Smith’s quiet courage still resonates.

He’s not polished or powerful. He’s simply a man who believes in doing what’s right—even if it costs him everything.

“I guess this is just another lost cause, Mr. Paine. All you people don’t know about lost causes. Mr. Paine does.”

That line hit me hard because I’ve been there. Maybe you have too—fighting for something that feels too big, too broken, too far gone. Whether it’s in a hospital room, a classroom, or our country, there are moments when you wonder if your voice matters at all.

But then I remember: it’s the “lost causes” that often need us the most.

Jefferson Smith’s filibuster wasn’t just about a boys’ camp. It was about integrity—about standing up when it would be easier to sit down. About believing that the truth, spoken plainly and with heart, still has power.

“Liberty’s too precious a thing to be buried in books… Men should hold it up in front of them every single day of their lives and say: I’m free to think and to speak.”

That’s what I want for my students. Not just to memorize the steps of how a bill becomes a law, but to believe that their voices matter—that democracy isn’t something that happens in Washington; it happens in classrooms, in conversations, in choices.

And that’s what I want for myself, too.

I’m just starting to write a book—my story of battling cancer, walking through fear, and finding hope. It’s hard to share, but I keep thinking: if one person reads it and feels less alone, maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what it means to be an honest voice.

So yes, I believe one voice can still make a difference. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s true.

And in a time when so much feels uncertain, that’s something worth holding onto.

The desk of a U.S. Senator, as featured on senate.gov.



Hurricane Melissa and the Mountains of Memory

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

In another lifetime, I might have become a meteorologist. The science of storms—their rhythm, fury, and eerie precision—has always fascinated me. But the math? That was enough to push me toward the humanities. Still, when Hurricane Melissa roared toward Jamaica with sustained winds of 185 mph and a pressure of 892 millibars, I found myself drawn back into a vortex of curiosity and awe.

Those numbers are more than just statistics. A pressure of 892 mb places Melissa among the most intense hurricanes ever recorded in the Atlantic basin. For comparison, Hurricane Katrina reached a minimum pressure of 902 mb. The lower the pressure, the stronger the storm—because it indicates the atmosphere is collapsing inward with terrifying force, fueling the cyclone like a vacuum engine. Melissa wasn’t just strong; she was historic.

Jamaica, with its lush mountains and coastal beauty, stood directly in her path. I’ve never been there, but the images I’ve seen—turquoise waters, green ridges, vibrant towns—make it hard to imagine the aftermath. And yet, I can’t stop wondering: what happened at elevation? The Blue Mountains rise over 7,000 feet, and wind speeds at that height can be significantly higher than at sea level. Could gusts have reached 200 mph or more? The physics say yes. The devastation, especially in exposed highland communities, must be staggering.

Storms like Melissa remind me of another hurricane that left its mark—not on the landscape, but on my memory. In 1999, I was a college student at Georgia Southern University in Statesboro. Hurricane Floyd was rushing toward the Southeast, and for a while, it looked like coastal Georgia might take a direct hit. The evacuation was huge—one of the largest the region had ever seen. A drive to Atlanta that usually took four hours stretched into ten or more. My roommate and I stayed behind, watching the skies and listening to updates, caught between youthful bravado and quiet unease.

Floyd eventually veered north, sparing Georgia but hammering the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Still, the experience stayed with me. It taught me that hurricanes aren’t just weather events — they’re emotional ones. They stir fear, force decisions, and leave behind stories that shape how we see the world.

Melissa will share stories too. Some will be told in data—wind speeds, rainfall totals, damage estimates. Others will be told in voices—of families rebuilding, communities rallying, landscapes forever changed. And somewhere in the mix, I’ll be watching, wondering, and writing. Because even if I never became a meteorologist, the weather still finds its way into my heart.

Hurricane Melissa—shortly before landfall in Jamaica.
Photo provided by NOAA.

Why Local Arts Matter—From Horton to Heritage

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Tonight, my daughters and I sat in the theater at Heritage High School and watched a group of talented students bring Seussical Jr. to life. From Horton’s earnest heart to the Cat in the Hat’s playful chaos, the cast poured themselves into every line, every song, and every moment. It was joyful, funny, and deeply moving—not just because of the performance, but because of what it represents.

This wasn’t just a play. It was a reminder of why the arts matter.

In a time when funding for school and community arts programs is shrinking, nights like this feel even more important. As Hitchens (2025) explains, the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) abruptly ended hundreds of grants earlier this year, leaving local organizations scrambling to stay afloat. Public schools, too, are feeling the squeeze. Despite being recognized as part of a “well-rounded education” under federal law, arts programs are often the first to go when budgets tighten. (National Association for Music Education [NAfME], 2023)

But what we saw tonight at Heritage proved that the arts are not just a luxury—they are a lifeline. They give students a voice, a stage, and a community. They teach collaboration, confidence, and creativity. They invite families to gather, celebrate, and experience something together.

The Young Kangeroo with Caroline and Julie.

I’ve seen this firsthand during my student teaching at Heritage. The chorus, band, and theater programs are lively and full of passion. The staff and students work tirelessly to put on these productions, often with limited resources and behind-the-scenes effort. And yet, they shine.

Beyond the school walls, local arts organizations—city orchestras, opera companies, community theaters—face similar challenges. They depend on public support, volunteers, and donations to continue. When we show up, buy a ticket, or clap from the audience, we’re not just enjoying a show. We’re investing in the heart of our community.

So tonight, as Horton reminded us that “a person’s a person, no matter how small,” I thought about how every student, performer, and artist deserves to be seen and heard. Supporting the arts isn’t just about entertainment—it’s about education, equity, and empathy.

Let’s continue showing up. Let’s keep applauding. Let’s persist in fighting for the arts.

References:

Hitchens, H. A. (2025, June 3). NEA slashes arts funding, threatening local cultural lifelines. Observer. https://observer.com/2025/06/arts-funding-cuts-nea-economic-cultural-cost/

National Association for Music Education. (2023, November). The impact of federal funds on music & arts education: Results from 2023 survey. https://nafme.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/November-2023-Federal-Funds-Issue-Brief-Arts-Advocates.pdf



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.

The Best Day I Can Imagine

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

I’ve been following Sean Dietrich for several years now. His writings, stories, and music have meant a lot to me. I can usually turn to him when I need to be cheered up. If you’re not a follower, I strongly recommend you look him up.

A year or so ago, during a particularly trying time in my life, he wrote a story so meaningful I printed it on resume paper and framed it. Link: https://seandietrich.com/youre-gonna-be-okay/

This morning, he posted another powerful piece with a question that hit me right in the soul:

How would you spend your best day ever?

Here is my response.

The Best Day I Can Imagine

I used to think the best day ever would involve food. A biscuit, maybe. Or a slice of pepperoni pizza so hot it burns the roof of your mouth. I used to dream in flavors—salt, fat, sugar. But cancer took that from me. Took my taste buds. Took my ability to eat. Now, nourishment comes through a tube. And I’ve made peace with that, mostly.

But if I could choose my best day ever, it wouldn’t be about food. It would be about freedom.

Tomorrow, I return to Emory for the 42nd time in five years and three months. I’ll sit in a waiting room that feels like a second home. I’ll hear the hum of machines, the shuffle of nurses, the quiet prayers of other patients. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll hear the words: “You’re cancer free.”

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

I finished radiation on October 23, 2020. Five years is the milestone. I’m close. So close I can taste it—if I could taste anything.

But even if tomorrow doesn’t bring that declaration, my best day ever is still possible. It’s a day with my wife and two daughters. Just the four of us. No anxiety. No financial stress. No medical appointments. No what-ifs.

We’d be together. Laughing. Maybe watching a movie. Maybe walking in the fall air. Maybe just sitting on the porch, listening to the wind. I wouldn’t be worried about bills or scans or tubes or timelines. I’d just be Dad. Husband. Matt.

And I’d feel peace. Not the kind you fake for others. The kind that settles deep in your bones. The kind that whispers, “You made it.”

That’s my best day ever.

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.