Reflection

Updates from a Good Summer and a New Fall

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

It has been my second month of Sundays, but I’m still here, still writing, and still refusing to let long pauses convince me otherwise. Life gets busy. Breaks happen. But I always have stories simmering on the back burner, waiting for the right moment to come out. And right now seems like a good time to catch everyone up on life.

This summer has been a good one—maybe one of the best in a long while. It was my first summer in several years without classes hanging over my head, and I soaked up every bit of it. At the end of June, we took a wonderful trip: our first cruise. The girls absolutely loved it, and Jenn and I enjoyed it just as much. There was something special about watching the girls take in the ship for the first time—the way their eyes lit up at its sheer size, the way they bounced from one activity to the next, as if trying to take in every ounce of magic at once.

One of my best moments was being on the deck at sunset, the sky melting into oranges and pinks over the Western Caribbean. The girls were still energized from the day’s adventures, and Jenn and I just stood there for a minute, taking in the quiet. It seemed like the kind of moment you tuck away and keep. If anybody has questions about cruising, feel free to reach out. We sailed on the Disney Destiny, and it lived up to its name.

Yesterday was Caroline’s 10th birthday. Double digits. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that. She’s grown so much this past year—not just taller, but more confident, more curious, more herself. She spent her birthday bouncing between eagerness and pride, reminding us every few minutes that she was officially ten now. This is her last year in elementary school, and next year she’ll be walking the halls of middle school. Time really does move fast. I’m proud of her, and I’m also holding onto these last elementary school moments while I can.

Two days ago marked the 12th anniversary of losing my best friend. Twelve years. It doesn’t seem possible. I still think of him often, and this year has been no different. There are days when a memory hits me out of nowhere—something he said, something he’d laugh at—and it feels like he’s right there for a second. His oldest son, Cade, started college this fall. Danny would be so proud of the man Cade has become. He carries himself with a strength that reminds me of his dad. And Haddon is doing just as well—thriving in middle school with Julie. Watching those boys grow has been one of the quiet blessings of my life. It’s a signal that even when someone is gone, their impact keeps moving forward.

At the end of July, I hit the six year mark of my life saving surgery. Six years of major changes, six years of learning to live differently, and six years of being alive. When I was diagnosed, I was given only a 38% chance of making it five years. Now, being declared cancer free since October, I consider every day bonus time. There are moments—simple ones, like sitting on the porch in the evening or hearing the girls laugh from the other room—where I feel such gratitude settle in. I don’t take any of it for granted.

Summer break has ended, school has started back, and fall is creeping in. I’m more than ready for cooler weather. The school front has been the one area with bumps in the road. I had hoped to land a full time teaching job, but that didn’t come together. By early August, I was feeling discouraged. It’s hard when you pour yourself into something and the timing just doesn’t line up. But what started as disappointment has turned into excitement.

In mid August, I was offered the chance to be a long term substitute for a wonderful teacher in one of my favorite schools. The gig started this week, and I think it’s already going smoothly. I’m working with a great co-teacher and seeing a lot of familiar faces. Since it’s an 8th grade class, I’ve known some of these students for four years—dating back to my time as a parapro at Ringgold Elementary. Seeing them now, taller and older and full of opinions, feels like watching a story unfold in chapters. There’s something meaningful about being part of their journey again.

I’m confident the perfect full time teaching job will open when the timing is right, and when it does, I’ll jump in with open arms. Until then, I’m grateful for where I am and excited for what’s ahead.

As I look back over these past few months, I’m struck by how much life can hold at once—joy, loss, growth, uncertainty, gratitude. This summer gave me time to breathe, time to celebrate, and time to remember. It reminded me that even when the road gets bumpy, there are still sunsets on cruise decks, birthdays with double digit smiles, old memories that warm the heart, and new opportunities that show up right when you need them. I’m grateful for the bonus time I’ve been given, grateful for the people who fill my days, and grateful for the chance to keep moving forward. Fall is coming, and with it a fresh season. I’m ready for it. I’m encouraged by it. And I’m walking into it with open arms.

250 Years of an Unfinished Idea

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

(A reflective story for the 250th anniversary)

I’ve always loved the Fourth of July. The fireworks, the flags, and the familiar hum of summer evenings have all been part of my life for as long as I can remember. For me, the Fourth isn’t just a holiday. It’s a time to pause and appreciate America’s long, complicated, and beautiful story.

But this year — the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding — feels different.

And I’ve been trying to understand why.

Maybe it’s because anniversaries invite reflection. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much of my life studying and sharing the ideals that shaped this country — liberty, equality, justice, self‑government — and I’ve watched those ideals bend and strain under the weight of our current moment. Or maybe it’s because patriotism itself has become tangled up with politics in a way that makes it hard to celebrate without feeling like you’re sending the wrong message.

I love my country. I always have. But this year, I don’t feel the same spark I usually do.

Part of that is the national climate. We’re living in a time when the tone of our politics feels sharper, louder, and more divisive than ever. It’s easy to feel like celebrating America might be mistaken for endorsing whatever is happening in Washington — even when your heart is focused on something much deeper and older than the present moment.

It’s a strange place to be — loving the country, but not loving the moment.

But maybe that’s exactly why this year matters.

Because the Fourth of July was never meant to be a celebration of a president. It was meant to be a celebration of an idea — the radical, world‑shaking belief that people could govern themselves, that power could come from the consent of the governed, that liberty was worth fighting for even when the odds were impossible.

And it’s worth remembering that in 1776, politics looked nothing like they do today. There were no parties, no campaigns, no national candidates. The Founders weren’t arguing over personalities — they were arguing over principles. They were wrestling with questions that still echo today: What does freedom mean? Who gets to participate in it? How do we build a nation worthy of its own promises?

On July 4, 1776, the men in Philadelphia weren’t celebrating perfection. They were celebrating possibility — the fragile, daring hope that a nation built on ideals could outlast the flaws of the people who shaped it.

And possibility is something I still believe in.

Patriotism, at its core, isn’t blind loyalty. It’s not about cheering for whoever sits in the Oval Office. It’s about loving your country enough to want it to live up to its ideals. It’s about recognizing that the story of America has always been written by people who dared to imagine something better — even when the present felt heavy, divided, or uncertain.

Frederick Douglass reminded us that: “The life of the nation is secure only while the nation is honest, truthful, and virtuous.”

Susan B. Anthony taught us that patriotism includes expanding the circle of equality.

Martin Luther King Jr. urged us to “stand up for what is right,” even when the world feels complicated.

John Lewis called on us to make “good trouble, necessary trouble” because loving America sometimes means challenging it.

And Maya Angelou, with her unmatched grace, reminded us that: “We may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated.”

These voices — these Americans — carried the nation forward when the path wasn’t clear. Their patriotism wasn’t loud. It was steady, courageous, and rooted in hope.

The Fourth of July belongs to them. It belongs to us. It belongs to anyone who sees the gap between who we are and who we could be — and chooses to keep pushing forward.

So maybe this year, my celebration looks a little different.

Maybe it’s quieter. More reflective. More rooted in gratitude for the people who have carried this country through its hardest chapters. More focused on the ideals that endure, even when the politics don’t.

Maybe patriotism, in its truest form, is not loud. Maybe it’s steady. Maybe it’s the quiet decision to keep believing in the promise of America, even when the present feels complicated.

As we mark 250 years, I’m choosing to celebrate the America I’ve spent my life learning about — the America that strives, stumbles, learns, and grows. The America that expands its circle of “We the People” a little wider with each generation. The America that is bigger than any one leader, any one moment, any one presidency.

I’m choosing to celebrate the idea — not the politics.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most patriotic thing I can do.

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.