Beach Ball

June 14, 2026

Photo by James Jeremy Beckers on Unsplash

Last night, Gabriel and I stood among thousands of people at a Dave Matthews Band concert, singing along to songs I've heard countless times before. The band was in fire, the music was great, the crowd was energetic, the weather was remarkably cooperative, and for a few hours the worries and responsibilities of everyday life seemed to fade into the background.

Then came the encore.

Dave stepped to the microphone and began playing an acoustic version of Beach Ball.

Of all the songs in the Dave Matthews Band catalog, this one carries a different weight for me.

I've written about this song in a previous post and what it meant to me.

Over the last eighteen months, I have spent more time than I ever expected in chairs, treatment rooms, and traveling to New York City for more cancer treatment. The routines became familiar. The blood draws. The scans. The chemotherapy. The radiation. The CAR-T. The scans. The waiting.

There is a strange rhythm to being a patient. Life narrows. You focus on the next appointment, the next treatment, the next scan, the next set of blood work. The future becomes measured in weeks instead of years. You learn to celebrate small victories because sometimes they are the only victories available.

During the last 18 months, Beach Ball found its way into my headphones more often.

The song has always felt different to me. It carries a sense of hope without pretending life is easy. It acknowledges that there are storms while reminding us there is still beauty worth holding onto. The imagery of a beach ball floating through the air feels like a reminder that life is meant to be shared. Something passed from one person to another. Something that connects strangers, if only for a moment.

That idea resonated with me during treatment.

Cancer has a way of stripping away the illusion that we control everything. It forces you to accept uncertainty. It teaches you that some days you are strong and some days you are not. It reminds you that none of us gets through life alone.

What made the moment even more meaningful was learning afterward just how rare it was.

Beach Ball had not been played in 328 shows. More than six years had passed since its last appearance in February 2020. It was also the first time Dave Matthews Band had ever used the song to open an encore.

For everyone in attendance, it was a surprise. For me, it felt personal.

Standing there hearing it live after all these years felt almost impossible. The odds of hearing it last night were incredibly small. Yet there it was, opening the encore as if it had been waiting for the right moment to return.

One lyric has stayed with me throughout this journey:

"Give me scars to bring me grace."

I don't know if another line has hit me quite the same way over the last year and a half.

Most of us spend our lives trying to avoid scars. We hide them. We wish they weren't there. We see them as reminders of pain, failure, loss, or battles we never wanted to fight.

Yet scars tell another story.

A scar means you survived something.

A scar means healing took place.

A scar means the wound did not get the final word.

My scars are not all visible. Some came from procedures, treatments, and the physical toll cancer takes on a body. Others came from fear, uncertainty, difficult conversations, and long nights wondering what came next. Some of those scars arrived long before cancer ever entered my life.

What I have learned is that grace often arrives through those scars.

Grace is found in the people who sat beside me during appointments. It is found in the doctors and nurses who dedicate their lives to helping others. It is found in family members who quietly carry burdens alongside you. It is found in friends who call, text, pray, and check in when they don't know what else to do.

Grace is found in realizing how much you need other people.

Grace is found in understanding that every day is a gift.

Grace is found in learning that strength and vulnerability can exist in the same person at the same time.

As the final notes drifted across the crowd, I couldn't help but smile, with a few tears in my eyes.

Thousands of people heard a rare song.

I heard a reminder.

A reminder of how far I've come.

A reminder of the people who have walked this road beside me.

A reminder that healing is rarely a straight line.

A reminder that grace often shows up where we least expect it.

The song ended. The crowd cheered. Gabriel stood beside me and recognized the moment for what it was to me.

Like every concert, the evening eventually came to an end.

The lesson didn't.

Sometimes grace arrives in a hospital room.

Sometimes it arrives through the kindness of another person.

Sometimes it arrives through a phone call, a prayer, or a hand on your shoulder.

Sometimes it arrives in the form of a song that hasn't been played in more than six years, returning at exactly the moment you needed to hear it.

Thanks Dave for playing that song.

Thank you all for being with me on this journey.