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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.

On This Side of Heaven

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

This week, life reminded me how fragile and unfair it can be.

On Tuesday, I received word that the registrar at the middle school where I used to substitute had passed away. It was a shock. I didn’t know her well, but I remember her kindness — helping me get into classrooms, always with a calm presence. She was a beloved member of a tight-knit faculty and staff. I knew her daughter too — she was in 8th grade last year. My heart aches for her.

Then yesterday, I learned that another woman had passed away. Her name was Kim. I never got the chance to meet her, but I know her in-laws — they go to our church. Good, gracious people. I know Kim had twin daughters. They went to Camp Kesem with my girls the summer before last — a camp for children whose parents have cancer. They even shared a cabin with Julie. Kim fought hard, but cancer got the best of her.

So here we are. One girl lost her mother suddenly. Two more lost their mother to a disease that takes too much. And I’m left asking the same question I’ve asked before: Why do bad things happen to such good people?

It’s a life question. One we’ll never fully understand — at least not on this side of heaven.

But maybe part of the answer is in how we respond. In how we show up. In how we listen, pray, and offer what we can — even if it’s just a meal, a hug, or a quiet moment of presence.

I don’t have answers.

But I do believe in showing up — in small kindnesses, in shared stories, in listening when someone needs to talk. I believe in the power of presence, even when words fall short. I believe that grief doesn’t follow a script, and neither does healing.

Sometimes, all we can do is stand beside those who are hurting and say, “I see you. I’m here.” Sometimes, all we can offer is a meal, a memory, or a moment of stillness. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Life doesn’t always make sense. Loss doesn’t play fair. But love — love shows up anyway. In casseroles and camp cabins. In church pews and classroom doors. In the quiet resolve of those who keep going, even when their hearts are broken.

So I’ll keep telling stories. I’ll keep listening. I’ll keep showing up — because that’s what we do for each other, on this side of heaven.

The Invisible Weight

/ Matthew Hamilton / 1 Comment

Some mornings, the heaviness shows up before your feet even find the floor. 

It’s not loud. It doesn’t shout. It just settles in beside you, quiet and familiar—like a shadow that doesn’t need to explain itself.

That’s how I’ve felt these past few days. Not overwhelmed. Not panicked. Just… off. Like the soul knows something the rest of me hasn’t caught up to yet.

Yesterday, I got a text from a friend—not someone I’ve met in person, but someone whose story echoes my own. We share the same battle scar: oral cancer. Her journey came first, and mine followed. We were both cared for by the same surgeon, Dr. Kaka—a man with kind eyes and steady hands. He walked us both through fire.

She told me that her latest scan back in April showed a small nodule on her lung. Probably nothing. These things come and go. But still—there it was. That word, nodule, has a way of pressing down on you, even when you know better. I’ve been in that place, too. They found something on my own lung once. It disappeared by the next scan—but not before it quietly rearranged the furniture in my chest.

As I was sitting with that concern, I heard more news—of a woman I once knew from church. Someone who worshiped with us when my best friend, Danny, was pastor. She and her husband eventually moved to South Georgia. They were still on my social feed. We weren’t close, but we were connected—by Sundays, by a meal, by a dozen shared handshakes across time. Yesterday, she lost her life in a car accident. She was 37. A wife. A mother of four kids. Her family had just returned from a mission trip to Honduras.

There’s no good way to hold that kind of loss. No words that feel big enough.

So no, I can’t point to a single thing making this week feel heavy. But the weight is there.

It’s grief. It’s worry. It’s that strange ache that comes from carrying the sorrows of others in your spirit—even when those sorrows aren’t technically yours.

Sometimes grief doesn’t come barreling in. It tiptoes. Layered. Stacked quietly beneath everyday things. You make breakfast. You answer emails. You check the weather. And all the while, you’re carrying the ache of news you didn’t expect, of people you loved in ways that don’t always make sense on paper.

Mental health isn’t always about a crisis. Sometimes it’s just the quiet cost of caring. The emotional hangover that comes from loving people so deeply that their pain leaves an imprint on your day. Even when your scan is clear, it doesn’t mean the fear is gone. Even when the tragedy didn’t land at your door, your spirit still flinches when it hears it knock.

It’s the weight of waiting. Of uncertainty. Of bearing witness to a world that breaks, sometimes beautifully, sometimes cruelly.

If you’ve been feeling this too—if the world feels louder than usual, heavier in your chest—you’re not broken. You’re not “too sensitive.” You’re human. And that humanity is holy.

Today, I’m holding space for my friend. I’m holding space for that family. I’m holding space for the ache that doesn’t need to be justified to be real. And if your heart feels stretched, too—just know: you’re not the only one.

We don’t always need answers. But we do need each other.

If this resonates, I’d be honored if you left a note. We’re all carrying something.