I pulled into the parking space sometime early this morning—drenched, exhausted, and honestly, a little delirious. My ears were still humming from the music, my clothes still damp from the Georgia storm, and the interstate still echoed in my bones. But as I sat there for a beat before cutting the engine, I felt something else too: peace. The kind that only comes after a long, winding journey that somehow lands exactly where it needed to.
The day had started in typical Matt fashion—rushed, overcommitted, a little chaotic, and filled with more love than logistics should allow. I picked up my best friend, then we swung down to Dalton to meet Cade’s friend. Cade isn’t my nephew by blood, but I’ve been Uncle Matt to him since the day he was born. I was there at the hospital, holding him in his first hours on this earth—the son of my best friends, Danny (my brother from another mother) and his bride Cassie, a bond sealed long before either of us had kids in mind. Cade, in true Danny fashion, was on a mission trip and was waiting south of Atlanta. So we took off to go get him.
Danny never made it to see Cade turn 17. Cancer—CML—took him too soon. He and I had always said we’d see Dave Matthews Band together someday. It was a shared soundtrack—the music that got us through long nights, big questions, and road trips that didn’t need a destination. We never got that concert. But last night, I went with Cade—his son—along with Cade’s stepdad—a good man who stepped into big shoes with kindness—and Cade’s buddy. It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow it felt even more right.
Getting there wasn’t easy. Atlanta traffic was Atlanta traffic—on steroids. What should’ve been a few hours turned into a tangled maze of brake lights and exit ramps. After the show, we retraced those same miles in reverse: south to drop off Cade, north again to get everyone else home. Somewhere in there, the heavens opened up.
The rain came sideways—the kind that feels biblical—with lightning cracking the sky like punctuation. As if nature itself had something to say.
And yet… in the middle of all that chaos, we stood under the Georgia sky—soaked, smiling, swaying to a setlist that felt like it had been chosen just for us.
Granted, Cade and I did get into a friendly fuss—he insists Dave Matthews Band isn’t a jam band. I reminded him—with evidence—that some of their live versions could legally qualify as time zones. We agreed to disagree, mostly. Even if some of our favorite songs didn’t make the setlist, it was hard to argue with the ones that did.
I looked over at Cade, tall now and almost grown, and I swear I saw Danny there too. Not in a ghostly way. More like the way Cade sang certain lyrics. The way he laughed at something I said. The way he just was.
Meanwhile, the three people directly in front of us spent most of the show harvesting crops on their phones. Farmville. In 2025. At a Dave Matthews Band concert. I don’t know what they were growing, but I hope it was worth missing “Dive In” or “Captain.” Judging by their sudden attention, the only songs they came for were “Ants Marching” and “Crash Into Me.”
I thought about how much Danny would’ve loved this night. Not just the band, but seeing his son out in the world—living, laughing, feeling joy. I thought about how music carries memory—how certain chords and lyrics can hold grief and gratitude in the same breath.
And maybe that’s what last night really was: a way of keeping a promise I never got to say out loud. A way of saying, “You’re not forgotten. We still carry you—with every song, every laugh, every long drive through thunder and rain.”
It wasn’t easy getting there. It wasn’t convenient. But love rarely is.
Sometimes it looks like five hours of traffic and a tank full of gas. Sometimes it sounds like a guitar riff breaking through the storm. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—it feels like standing in a crowd with a seventeen-year-old boy whose dad should’ve been there… but somehow was.
The Quiet Middle 