faith

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.

Faith After the Fire

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Surviving cancer, losing a friend, and learning to live with the questions.

I still remember the day my best friend called with the news. He had chronic myeloid leukemia—CML, the doctors said. But they also said it was treatable. Manageable. The kind of cancer you could live with. We clung to that word: treatable. It felt like a promise.

He passed away in 2014. He was 30. I still remember the funeral—how surreal it felt to say goodbye to someone who had so much life left to live. He had been diagnosed a few years earlier, and we all believed he’d beat it. CML was supposed to be manageable. The medications were promising. But for reasons no one could explain, they didn’t work for him. His body didn’t respond the way the textbooks said it should.

He would have turned 41 this past January.

I was diagnosed in 2020, at 42. Stage 4A cancer in my head and neck. The tumor was buried deep at the base of my mouth. The doctor didn’t sugarcoat it—without surgery, I had six to eight months. Even with treatment, the five-year survival rate was less than 50%.

In three months, I’ll reach that five-year mark.

I think about him often. About how our stories diverged. About how I’m still here, and he’s not. And I wonder—not with bitterness, but with reverence—why?

I’ve felt tremendous survivor’s guilt.

Why did God spare me, while taking him? Why am I still here, when others—good people, young people, people with families—are not?

After Danny was diagnosed, we all fought so hard. His medications were staggeringly expensive, and I remember reaching out to a CML foundation, desperate to find help. I ran a Facebook page to keep people updated on his journey. Every post was a prayer in disguise—hope wrapped in words.

On August 25, 2014, I was at his bedside when he took his last breath.

Two years later, almost to the day, my youngest daughter Caroline was born. August 26, 2016. Life arriving in the shadow of death. A reminder that grief and joy often share the same space.

I did a lot for Danny, though I never saw it that way. I would have traded places with him in a heartbeat. After he passed, my wife and I tried to be there for Cassie—his wife, our best friend—and their two boys. His youngest was just eight months old. His oldest, Cade, was six. I’ve tried to be a steady presence in Cade’s life over the years. We even went to a Dave Matthews Band concert together recently. He’s seventeen now. I still see Danny in his eyes.

When I was diagnosed in 2020, the roles reversed. I was the one in need. And God showed up—not in a miracle cure, but in people. Friends mowed our lawn, fixed things around the house, cleaned, donated money. Cancer is expensive, even with insurance. But love showed up in practical ways. In casseroles and yardwork. In prayers and presence.

I was released from the hospital on August 6, 2020. My wife and daughters stayed with Cassie and the boys for a few months while I recovered. That’s the kind of bond we had. Still have.

Cassie remarried in 2021. I was the best man in her and Danny’s wedding. Now, her husband Jared is one of my closest friends. Life is strange like that—grief doesn’t erase love; it reshapes it.

Danny’s life continues to shape mine. In how I show up. In how I listen. In how I love.

I still ask God why.

Why did Danny die at 30, with two boys who needed their dad? Why did the medicine fail him, when it was supposed to work? Why did I survive, when the odds were stacked against me?

I don’t have answers. I’ve stopped pretending I ever will.

But I’ve learned that faith after the fire doesn’t mean never asking the questions. It means asking them anyway—through tears, through silence, through clenched fists—and still choosing to believe that God is near.

I used to think faith was about certainty. Now I think it’s about presence. God didn’t explain Danny’s death to me. But He sat with me in the grief. He didn’t promise I’d survive. But He sent people to carry me when I couldn’t walk on my own.

Faith after the fire is quieter. Less about declarations, more about endurance. It’s the kind of faith that shows up in hospital rooms and funeral homes. In the way Cade still laughs like his dad. In the way that Haddon is now starting to look exactly like his brother and dad. In the way Caroline was born two years after we said goodbye. In the way love keeps showing up, even when the story doesn’t go the way we prayed it would.

I don’t know why God spares some and not others. But I do know this: every breath is a gift. And I want to spend mine loving well, grieving honestly, and living in a way that honors the ones who didn’t get the chance.

Danny’s story didn’t end when he died. It lives on in me. And maybe, in you too.

If you’ve lost someone, if you’ve faced the fire and wondered why you’re still standing—this is for you. Not to give you answers. But to remind you that your questions are holy. That your survival is not a mistake. And that even in the ashes, faith can rise.

From Lenape to Borderlands: What if We Welcomed Instead of Withheld?

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

June 23, 1683. It might’ve passed unnoticed—just a line on my “This Day in History” calendar, a tiny footnote in the long arc of American history. But it caught my eye this morning: William Penn signs a treaty of friendship with the Lenape people. I didn’t expect it to stay with me—but it did. Like a tug I couldn’t quite shake, asking me to sit with it, to listen.

During an era when conquest defined colonization, Penn’s treaty stood out. He encountered the Lenape—a Native American group who had lived for generations in what’s now the mid-Atlantic—not with weapons in hand but with an open hand. Legend says they gathered beneath a large elm tree, promising to live “in love and peace as long as the rivers run and the sun shines.” It wasn’t a perfect deal, and history would later question many such promises—but still, the spirit of that moment remains: the hope for shared land, for welcoming without domination.

And I can’t help but compare that with what we see today—especially at our own borders. Recently, we’ve seen families separated, asylum-seekers detained, and the conversation around immigration turn more hostile, suspicious, and exclusionary. We build walls instead of welcoming tables. We enforce barriers instead of offering help.

Somewhere along the southern border, a child curls up on a bench in a detention center, clutching the last phone number she remembers. Her mother, held elsewhere, prays someone will listen. 

Her story won’t make the calendar, but maybe it should.

What if we remembered 1683—not as a relic, but as a roadmap? What if the story of a Quaker leader and a Lenape council inspired us to greet today’s immigrant not with fear, but with friendship?

We know immigration is complicated—economically, politically, practically. But it’s also deeply human. I don’t know their names or their stories, but I believe they matter. I believe their hopes reflect the same hopes I have for my own family: safety, dignity, and the chance to build something better.

And if we claim to be a nation grounded in liberty, justice, and faith, then maybe our approach should reflect that—not perfectly, but intentionally.

Scripture reminds us: “Love the foreigner, for you were foreigners in the land of Egypt” (Deut. 10:19). We have all been outsiders at one time—whether in ancient deserts, new towns, or unfamiliar seasons of life. And those of us with faith woven into our identity are repeatedly called to extend the kind of welcome we would hope to receive.

I don’t think William Penn got everything right. None of us do. But I believe he understood something we still find difficult to grasp: peace isn’t passive. It’s chosen. It’s built. It’s shared, again and again.

Today, there are no grand elm trees symbolizing new promises among people. But the need still exists. Perhaps our new treaties don’t require parchment and signatures—they need neighbors, churches, book clubs, town halls. Maybe they need us.

Maybe they start by showing up at a community meal, calling our representatives, offering shelter, listening first, or teaching our children to see immigrants not as strangers but as future neighbors.

Maybe they start with a simple question: What would love do here?

That’s what I took away from the calendar today. A quiet reminder that we’ve been better before. And with enough courage, we can be better again.

The Treaty of Penn with the Indians, a portrait by Benjamin West completed in 1772.

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.

What It Means to Speak Truth With Civility

/ Matthew Hamilton / Leave a comment

Tuesday, June 17, 2025

This was originally posted on Facebook and later added to my blog.

I’m not someone who yells to make a point. I don’t see the value in shaming people into agreement. But I do believe in being honest about what I see—especially when it feels like the noise around us is drowning out the truth.

I live in Northwest Georgia. A lot of folks around here support Donald Trump. I know and love many of them. And still, I feel deeply troubled by what the Trump era has done to our country—the constant us-versus-them tone, the erosion of empathy, the vilifying of anyone who dares to disagree.

That kind of rhetoric doesn’t just stay in Washington or on cable news; it appears in school board meetings, county politics, and how we communicate with each other in the grocery store, in the comments section of a Facebook post, and certainly on social media—where people frequently express things they’d never say face-to-face. I’ve seen longtime friends clash online like adversaries. There’s something about being behind a screen that seems to strip away empathy, and that matters. When the volume of our politics increases, the volume of our humanity often decreases.


I’ve had a front-row seat to what really matters in life. In 2020, I was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. I was told I might have just eight months to live without surgery. Everything changed. I lost my lower lip and jaw. I still can’t eat by mouth. But I’m here. And I’ve learned that when you’re facing something that raw and real, politics don’t matter the way they once did. What matters is who shows up. Who brings peace into the room instead of more fire.

That experience gave me a clarity I didn’t expect. I don’t have time for hate, and I’m not interested in pretending that silence equals peace either. You can speak up without tearing others down. You can stand for something without shouting over everyone else in the room.

Civility isn’t weakness. It’s being steady when the world wants you to scream. It’s listening for the sake of understanding, not just to reload your argument. It’s choosing to believe that dignity still belongs in public conversation—even if fewer people seem to practice it.

This is the world I want my daughters to grow up in. It’s the kind of classroom I hope to lead soon, as I finish my degree and begin student teaching. I want my students to know: you don’t have to agree with everyone. However, you must respect that their story is just as sacred as yours.

That’s why I’m writing. Not because I think I’ve got it all figured out. But because I still believe that calm voices can carry. And maybe, just maybe, help others feel brave enough to speak truth with kindness too.

Take Care, 

Matt