The song is often mistaken for being about despair, but it is really about endurance. It does not deny sadness. It names it, sits with it, and keeps going anyway. The blues are not a failure in the song; they are a season that must be lived through.
That feels familiar.
Much of my life has not been marked by sudden drama, but by long stretches of responsibility, waiting, and quiet persistence. There have been losses that did not resolve cleanly, burdens that stayed longer than expected, and seasons where progress felt slow and invisible. Like the song, time has often moved at a crawl, especially when love, calling, and stewardship were involved.
What stands out to me now is the song’s patience. The voice is steady, not frantic. It assumes that what matters is worth waiting for. That posture mirrors how I have lived more than I realized at the time. I kept showing up. I kept building, serving, caring, and honoring commitments even when the payoff was delayed or uncertain. I did not always feel strong, but I stayed faithful.
The song also understands that sorrow does not have to define a person. The blues are real, but they are not permanent. They are something you experience, not something you become. My own grief and disappointment have shaped me, but they have not claimed my identity. Instead, they have sharpened my empathy, clarified my priorities, and deepened my understanding of what truly lasts.
If my life has a soundtrack in this season, it is not one of resignation. It is one of resolve. I have learned how to hold the note through the ache without becoming bitter. I have learned that endurance itself carries meaning, even when answers come slowly.
That is why the comparison fits. Not because I have known sorrow, but because I have learned how to live faithfully while it passes.
For Joshua Blake Hargrove from John Hagrove his dad June 2025 1984–2002
My son,
If I could sit across from you today—twenty-three years after you left this world—I would begin with the words that still rise unbidden in my heart: I miss you. Every day. Not with the same sharp ache as before, but with a quiet, steady presence that stays with me like breath. You are never far from my thoughts, never absent from my soul.
I would tell you honestly: a piece of me went quiet the day you died—and another part went angry. I wasn’t just broken. I was furious. Angry at the unfairness, the helplessness, the fact that the world kept spinning without you in it. I didn’t know how to carry the weight of that kind of grief, so I buried it. I buried the part of me that laughed freely, dreamed boldly, and felt things too deeply.
And in its place, I went to work. I built things. I solved problems. I became dependable and productive. But underneath it all, I was still just a father who had lost his son. The music stopped. The prayers faded. I kept going because I didn’t know how to stop—but I also didn’t know how to live fully anymore.
If I could tell you anything now, it would be this: Your death didn’t end me—but it did remake me. And over time, with grace and patience, something inside me began to stir again.
I would tell you that God didn’t abandon me. He held me through it all, though I didn’t always recognize His presence. And in the years that followed, a few key people—some family, some unexpected friends—entered my life and helped awaken parts of me I thought were gone forever. None of them replaced you. They couldn’t. But somehow, through their kindness, gentleness, and love, I began to feel again. I began to believe that I could be fully alive, even while still carrying your absence. I hold those relationships with reverence. They brought back to life the part of me that knows how to love without fear.
I would tell you about your mama. She’s still the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Her grief was quiet, but it ran deep. We’ve grown older together, and we still speak your name. Sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. You are still part of our home, our hearts, our story.
I’d tell you about the little ones in our family—your cousins’ children, great-nieces and nephews you never got to meet. I watch them play, laugh, stumble and grow, and I see glimpses of you. Their lives are full of light, and I imagine the kind of uncle you would have been—funny, kind, full of mischief and wisdom. Your absence in those moments is a presence all its own.
I’d tell you that I’ve come to believe in resurrection—not just of bodies, but of broken hearts, of joy, of purpose. I’ve come to believe that the deepest love isn’t erased by death. It changes form, but it remains. And I carry you as part of that resurrection. You are part of what brought me back to life.
Most of all, I would tell you that you are still my son. Nothing—not time, not distance, not death—can ever take that from us. You made me a father. You taught me the kind of love that doesn’t fade. And though I never got to watch you grow old, you’ve shaped the man I’ve become more than anyone else ever could.
If I could hold your face in my hands one more time, I would say what I still say in the silence of prayer:
You are my boy. I love you. And I will carry you until the day I see you again.
With all I am, Dad
And I would tell you—humbly—that someone came into my life many years later who helped awaken something that had gone dormant inside me. That I could still feel. Maybe I was allowed to be fully alive again. I hold that chapter of my life with reverence. As strange and sacred as it was, it brought something back to me I thought was lost forever: the part of me that knows how to love without fear.
Here lies John E. Hargrove January 24, 1958 – [date yet to be written]
A boy from Buna who never stopped wondering how things worked and never stopped trying to make them work for others.
He chased signals across microwave towers and fiber miles, built networks that carried light to forgotten places, and in the darkest valleys carried the light of Christ to broken hearts.
Husband to Leisa for a lifetime and beyond, father to Joshua—whose brief life taught him how to love forever, son of Robert and Lavee, brother, friend, mentor, builder.
He knew grief intimately, yet chose every morning to show up, to do the quiet work that lasts when applause has long faded.
He was not perfect. He was faithful.
Still learning. Still building. Still becoming. Now, at last, fully known and fully home.
June 21 2002, Life was good, Was doing well in all aspects. Success was everywhere.
50 minutes in June 22, and suddenly nothing was good any longer. nothing made sense anymore.
In one moment, everything focused on one thing, did I believe in a life or death way in eternal life based on Jesus Christ and his teachings. No time to prepare, think, consider, pray for strength, get ready … in one second I had to choose. I did not want to. Joshua was gone from where I was, where Leisa was. We could never ever talk, touch, guide, laugh, or cry with him again. All the plans we had to launch him into this life were rendered meaningless. I had said I was prepared, I found out I was not. I put on a brave face 80% of the time. I was a mess the rest, privately and was totally not there to help my wife grieve. The pain was beyond what I could imagine. Our plans to play with the grand kids in the back yard were now just a knife in our heart, grand children no longer possible.
Rewind 6 weeks or so, My mother in law passed from this life after years of health decline due to heart disease. She planned her funeral service with her daughters. A week prior to her death – she visited with the grand kids, laughed with them. We all knew this was goodbye, we hugged her. Her daughters and husband spent the next 5 days helping her pass. She died in her sleep on the 5th morning. We grieved and it hurt, but there was a peace. You expect 60+ people to probably die before you do at age 40 something.
2013 – my dad broke a hip at age 84, he slowly passed from this life over the next 60 days. There was a peace in his passing. We grieved but there was the expectation that parents go first. Looking back he had started passing about a year or so earlier, you could see his loss of interest in this life.
My wife’s friend’s mother passed recently, the funeral is today. Her friend is the last of her nuclear family, dad, then sister, and now mom are gone. She knew it was close for her mom, but it hurts and knowing you are the last of your little family is a different kind of hurt. We are praying for her and will go see her in a few days when she returns from out of state.
In times like these, words fail. Some things you need to say, just seems appropriate. But they fail. Nothing can stop the pain of loss. Time attenuates it. It stops being a knife 24×7 in your heart. The tears stop pouring most days.
Timeline
230am June 22 2002 when I found out that Joshua was dead to June 24 end of day. We had visitation June 22 at 5pm, we viewed privately Joshua’s body in the casket at noon – less than 12 hours after his death. His maternal grandparents had a burial policy that paid for his funeral…strange benefit…His grammy took care of Joshua even in death. I recall one of his friends standing at his casket weeping holding a teddy bear he gave her for what seemed to be a long time. We hugged her. I recall a cousin screaming on seeing him in the casket. Leisa and I cried and hugged everyone who came. I told them Joshua was ok. I knew he was with Jesus, and my heart was screaming and bleeding emotionally.
Afternoon of June 24, funeral service, I spoke through tears, I held onto Leisa, we watched the casket lower into the ground. We then spent the next 4 weeks choosing headstones. We picked a set and placed a poem on them that Joshua had written.
We stopped visiting the gravesite about 5 years later. He is not there. It still hurts, but the pain is attenuated and there is a peace that passes understanding. I know God has him and grammy and my dad. I trust that Jesus did what he said he does. Eternal life with him is the promise.
One of the survivors of the accident that killed Joshua and the other driver, a young man who was a youth group friend of Joshua’s and our friend the past many years. His life was a challenge, he was a bright light but had darkness, He believed in Jesus, but suffered emotional pain from a absent dad that he never reconciled with with. Once his mom passed from an illness he only made it two years and he simply died (my opinion) from the pain in his emotional heart, he gave up. It was sudden and we miss him too. I know he is being taken care of by God. Of that I have no doubt.
Passing is hard to navigate
Be thankful if you are simply navigating life and some small stuff. The passing to eternity is hard for those who remain behind to continue navigating this life.
That summer of 2002, I found my life scripture, 2 Cor 5:7 Walk by Faith not by Sight.
Joshua April 28 2002
Photos to help with visualizing Joshua, Grammy, Papa, and some other perspectives. Note the headstones we ended up with.
A poem, the one on the back of his headstone
We are one and the same, you and I, And though death may take us we will never die, For I’m only a soul, like yourself, Just another book on the shelf.
And though losses I will have, I am surely certain, That on life’s stage, beyond the curtain, My destiny will be found with great discernity, For what we do in life echoes in eternity.
– Joshua’s epitaph – The final two stanzas of Who I Am, subtitled “Alive in Christ,” are inscibed on his headstone at Magnolia Springs Cemetery near Kirbyville, TX
June 22 230am – Leisa and I learned our lives would change forever. We learned that our son Joshua was dead, killed in a head on automobile accident at 1250am. That was 2002. It was something neither Leisa nor I thought we could survive. Somehow through God’s grace we survived and thrived, it was not easy, it was hard. It was rough. People are great, family, friends, Emmaus, Chrysalis communities gave us love and support.
God provided the means of grace, the love directly from Him, and through other people.
One person was Jarod Eli Barclay. Joshua’s cousin – same age, older by one day….more like a brother than a cousin. about 2 to 3 days after the funeral…Eli gave Leisa and I a gift that never ends. He told us that Joshua could not tell us bye or that he loved us. He wrote and sang a song that spoke to us from Joshua’s perspective, in the song Joshua through Eli – says “I love you mom and I love you dad…”. We can listen to it anytime we want to. He had worked for almost 24 hours on creating the song.
The part of the story that only Leisa knew until Eli played the song for us – for two days Leisa had cried out to God in private pleading prayers – petitioning God to find some way to allow her to hear Joshua say I love you mom one more time. God and the Holy Spirit moved Eli to do this for Leisa and added in extra features to include me and provide it in a recording that both of us can hear anytime we want to.
One of the unexpected things that happened as a result of God using people and the circumstances of Joshua’s death to move people along their journey of faith. Leisa and I continued the Bible study Joshua started in early 2002. We served as youth directors at the FUMC Buna for 3 years. We entered into licensed and then ordained ministry. We work Chrysalis events almost every year even though Joshua never attended a weekend. We give talks at Emmaus and Chrysalis weekends where we each share the story of Joshua and how God walked with us every step of the grief process and continues to this day. Friday night 1/18 Leisa is previewing her Emmaus talk and we listened to part of Eli’s song again. It brings tears and hope…reminder of how much God loves us that He would move Eli to create the song in answer to a prayer.
God’s mercy and grace is indeed great!
“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the Lord, My refuge and my fortress, My God, in whom I trust! For it is He who delivers you from the snare of the trapper and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with His pinions, and under His wings you may seek refuge; His faithfulness is a shield and bulwark.” (Psalm 91:1-4)
Joshua’s song from Eli to Leisa and I can be downloaded (mp3) here
Thank you God, for this day and for your rich mercy and love! In Jesus name. Amen.
John Hargrove Seeking Truth and Reality 