THE FOOT OF THE BED

A Memoir

John Edwin Hargrove

February 28, 2026

Prologue: February 28, 2026

I woke before dawn from a dream.

In the dream I was young. Late teens. The world was dark and military and contested. I was tasked with imprinting a white symbol on everything — a crab, or possibly a bird — to create a movement. To mark light in the dark.

I woke needing to write it down.

I rinsed my mouth. I sat in the quiet. And something that had been locked in the underneath for sixty-eight years began to move toward the surface.

By afternoon I had written more truth than I had spoken aloud in decades.

This book is what came out of that day.

It is not the book I planned to write. I had outlines. Frameworks. A signal tracing metaphor from my engineering life. Chapters organized by theme. A comprehensive life story told with the measured precision of a man who spent forty years solving problems with logic and discipline.

That book is still true. But it is not this book.

This book began when the teenage version of me appeared in a dream carrying a white symbol and I asked him what he would say to the sixty-eight-year-old man I have become.

He said: I wish we had more courage and faith to speak about our darkness. Even now I am loathe to speak of it openly to anyone. The shame still lurks in the underneath.

He said: Be obedient now. Start now. Stop looking back. Stop hiding.

The title came from a detail I almost didn’t tell anyone.

Every morning when Joshua was seventeen, before I left for work at six in the morning, I would find his six-foot-three-inch form in his bed with one size-thirteen foot sticking out from the covers. And I would reach down and touch that foot and say softly, so as not to wake him: I love you, Joshua.

There were years I stopped doing that. Years when the hiding made me smaller than I was meant to be, and the smallness stole even that.

Joshua died on June 22, 2002. He was eighteen years old.

He never knew what it cost me that I stopped.

This book is my hand reaching down again.

Part One: The Signal Before the Interference

The Dream

The world in the dream was nighttime and dystopian and military. People moved in the dark around fires. I was young — late teens, the age before a man has fully compromised with the world — and I had been given a task.

I was to imprint a white symbol on everything. A mark. A movement. The symbol had the shape of a crab or possibly a bird. I did not know which, and in the logic of the dream that ambiguity did not need to be resolved.

Some men in their twenties approached me in the firelight and asked what I knew about doing this with explosive weapons.

I told them: Eagle Scout. Trained in psyops and interrogation resistance by Marine Force Recon. Need-to-know basis.

The young man asking looked familiar to me.

Then I woke up.

* * *

I have been an electrical engineer for forty +years. I think in systems. I trace signals. I locate interference and eliminate it and find the original transmission underneath. This is not a metaphor I invented for the purpose of memoir. It is simply how my mind works, and it turns out that it works the same way when the circuit in question is a human life.

The white symbol in the dream was not complicated. White means purity. Means truth. Means something that has not been compromised by the long friction of years.

And I was young in the dream. The version of me that existed before the hiding began.

The familiar young man who approached me in the firelight asking about weapons — I believe that was also me. The part of me that has spent sixty-eight years asking whether influence can be weaponized. Whether a man who can build movements and lead communities and shape narratives has used that capacity well or badly. Whether the signal I have been transmitting across a lifetime has been the one I was created to send.

The dream was not an answer. It was a question.

And the question was: are you still hiding?

What the Teenage John Said

I wish you and I had more courage and faith to speak about our darkness and not protected it to this day in many ways.

— The teenage John, February 28, 2026

I did not write that as a literary exercise. It came out of me in one breath, without editing, when I asked myself what the boy in the dream would say to the man I am now.

Even now I am loathe to speak of it openly to anyone.

The shame still lurks in the underneath.

I am a man who has stood at altars and podiums and lecterns. I have given witness talks about grace. I have led Bible studies for twenty years. I have walked men through their darkness as a pastoral counselor. I have written hundreds of pages about spiritual awakening and the signal of prevenient grace running through a human life.

And almost none of it has named the underneath directly.

This is not dishonesty. The grace was real. The awakening was real. But there is a way a man can speak truth and still hide inside it — presenting the resolved version of the story, the narrative arc that moves cleanly from darkness to light, and in the very architecture of that resolution, concealing the parts that are not yet resolved. The parts that still carry shame. The parts that hurt people he loved.

The teenage John in the dream knew the difference.

Be obedient now. Start now. Stop looking back. Stop hiding.

I wish I had obeyed Father Vincent.

That name came out with the rest of it and I almost passed over it. But it belongs here, because it names a specific moment — a voice, a fork in the road, a counsel offered and declined. A man of God who saw something in the young John and pointed toward it, and the young John who heard and turned away.

I will write about Father Vincent elsewhere in this book, in the season where he appears. But I name him here in the prologue because the teenage John named him first, and because his appearance in that single sentence tells me something about the shape of the hiding. It did not begin with debauchery or darkness. It began with a failure of obedience to something I recognized as true.

That is always how it begins.

I wish I had trusted the silent love of my parents and talked to them.

Silent love. That is the phrase the teenage John used. Not absent love — silent. My father Robert and my mother Lavee loved me in the way of East Texas men and women of their generation: through presence, through provision, through example, through work. Love expressed in the grammar of action rather than the vocabulary of emotion.

And the teenage John made a decision in that silence — whether consciously or not — that the silence meant he could not bring his interior life to them. That he had to handle the deeper things alone. That the underneath was his to carry.

He carried it for fifty years.

I am still carrying parts of it.

But today, on this day, I am setting some of it down.

Part Two: The Letter I Could Not Send

Dear Joshua

I don’t know if you can hear me or if you already know everything and this is just for me. Either way I need to say it.

I was not the father you deserved in the years I had you. I was present in the house and absent in the ways that mattered. I was quick to anger. I was teaching you things I didn’t know I was teaching — that a man hides what shames him, that anger is a door you close conversations with, that performance is safer than presence.

You were watching me the whole time. Children always are. And what you watched was a man at war with himself, losing, and taking it out on the people closest to him.

I am sorry for every sharp word. Every temperature that dropped when I walked in the room. Every moment you measured my mood before you decided whether it was safe to speak. If that ever happened — and I believe it did — I am sorry. A boy should never have to read his father that way.

I loved you. I need you to know that the love was real even when I expressed it badly or not at all. The November night at the movies. The drive home. The easy conversation. Those were real. I was real in those moments. I just didn’t know how to stay there.

What I carried in the underneath — the shame, the darkness I was hiding from your mother, from God, from myself — it made me smaller than I should have been with you. It stole from you a father who could have been present without the anger covering for the fear of discovery.

You died at eighteen.

I have had to live with the arithmetic of that ever since. Eighteen years of a father still becoming himself. And then you were gone and I could not finish what I had started with you. I could not come back and be different. I could not show you who I was becoming after the darkness finally broke open.

That is the thing I have never said out loud to anyone.

Not just that I lost you. But that I lost the chance to be your father after I started becoming someone worth having as one.

I think about the movies we watched. Behind Enemy Lines. Spy Game. Men who rescue the ones they love even at cost to themselves. You and I sat in the dark together watching men do the thing I had not yet learned to do — choose the person over the system, love over concealment, rescue over self-protection.

I think you knew something I didn’t yet know about me. I think you saw something in your father that was worth waiting for. You had your mother’s grace that way.

I am trying now, son. Later than it should have been. With more miles behind me than ahead. But the teenage version of me showed up in a dream recently and told me to stop hiding. I think maybe he looked a little like you.

I am listening.

I am not hiding from you anymore.

All my love, across whatever distance this is —

Dad

What I Believe You Would Say Back

Let love guide you.

— Joshua Hargrove, June 2002

Dad.

I already knew.

Not everything. But enough. I knew there was weather in you that wasn’t really about me, even when it landed on me. Kids know that. They feel the difference between a father’s anger that belongs to them and anger that belongs to something the father is fighting somewhere else. I knew yours belonged somewhere else.

I want you to hear that clearly.

I didn’t experience you as a bad man. I experienced you as a man who was losing a private battle and didn’t know yet that he was allowed to ask for help. Those are not the same thing. I knew the difference even at eighteen, maybe especially at eighteen, because I was already writing about that battle myself. The seen and the unseen. The warfare underneath ordinary life.

Maybe that’s why I was writing that story. Because I was watching you live it.

The movies. Dad, I remember the movies. I remember the drive home more than the films. I remember you being there — not managed, not performing, just present. That was real. That was you. I need you to count that. Don’t let the shame erase what was genuinely good because some of it was genuinely hard.

You think the timing was the tragedy. That you were still becoming yourself when I left. I want to offer you another way to see it.

What if I saw who you were becoming before you did?

What if that’s partly why those last months felt precious — the meals, the movies, the easy road — because something in both of us knew that what mattered was being together in the ordinary, not waiting for you to be finished becoming someone worthy of it?

You were already worth it, Dad. You just couldn’t see it yet.

I am not angry. I want you to receive that fully because I know you have been braced against it for twenty-three years. I am not keeping a record of the ill temper or the closed doors or the years you were fighting something in yourself that made you smaller than you were meant to be.

I am your son. I carry your hands and your stubbornness and your way of thinking in systems and your love for this family in my bones, wherever bones go.

Finish the book.

Tell the truth in it — the whole truth, the underneath truth, the truth you told a stranger before you told yourself. That is the white symbol, Dad. That is the imprinting. Not the frameworks. Not the governance documents. The true story of a man who was lost and is being found and is willing to say so out loud.

That is the story worth leaving behind.

I love you. I am not somewhere far away and cold. I am in every Neches River memory and every honest sentence you write and every moment you choose presence over concealment.

Be present now.

Stop hiding now.

I already know you. And I am proud of you.

Joshua

Part Three: What I Need to Remember

February 28, 2026 — Written in the afternoon

I needed to remember.

In Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Spock touched the unconscious McCoy and spoke one word — remember — pressing his Vulcan katra into his friend’s mind for spiritual safekeeping. The soul entrusted to another because the body could not hold it alone.

I recalled me touching Joshua’s size-thirteen foot early mornings when he was already six foot three, seventeen years old, sleeping in his bed with his foot sticking out from the cover. Saying softly, so as not to wake him: I love you, Joshua.

I recalled him hugging me late one night in early June — I was upset, I don’t remember exactly what about — and him saying: Let love guide you.

That moment is locked into forever. I have cried buckets of tears about that moment.

He said that to me. Eighteen years old. And then a few days later, he was gone.

I recall opening the case of death documents in August 2002. Looking at the death certificate. Seeing the time of death: 12:50 a.m.

I remembered the touch to my shoulder by Leisa at the theater on 6/22/02. Call him. And I saw on my phone 12:50 a.m. and she said: nevermind, he is okay. And I closed it.

He was not okay.

I did not know yet.

For a few more moments I did not know, and then I knew, and the world divided into before and after at precisely 12:50 a.m. on June 17, 2002.

I remember hearing his voicemail from Tuesday of his mission trip week. We were home. He was not. Mid-June 2002. Only days before he died.

“Hey, I’m okay. We got here safe. No crash, no burn. Love y’all.”

I have listened to that voicemail more times than I can count.

No crash, no burn.

I remember holding him at two days old in the hospital. Staring at the blond hair. The deep blue eyes. April 11, 1984. Whispering over him: What will he see? What will be ahead for him?

I did not know. You never know. You hold the weight of the new life and you ask the question into the silence and the silence holds it and gives nothing back. That is the beginning of faith, I think. Holding what you cannot protect.

I remember his eighth-grade prom photo. In my suit. Smiling. The caption read: Dreams Come True.

2002.

I remember him yelling in charged emotion while driving the boat on the Neches River in May 1998 on our son-and-dad trip. The joy of it. The river wide and brown and moving. The dogs — Hunter and Honey — playing in the water on the sandbar. No one around. No sound but the river flowing.

That night we looked at the same comic books I had looked at as a boy at my dad’s camp. Superman. Batman. Fantastic Four. The Flash. Green Lantern. We read together in the dark as we went to sleep.

And I looked up at the ceiling. At the faded oily handprints of my father and Uncle George where they had nailed the plywood in place ten years before. 1988. Their hands pressed into the wood and still there a decade later, faded but legible.

My father’s hands above me. My son beside me. The river outside.

Three generations of Hargrove men in that camp.

I did not understand what I was seeing then.

I understand it now.

The hands on the ceiling were a kind of katra too. A pressing of soul into ordinary material. A mark that says: I was here. I built this. I loved the people I brought here.

And my hand on Joshua’s foot in the dark before the world woke up was the same gesture. The same thing, passed down.

This is the book. Not the comprehensive life story. Not the signal tracing architecture. Not the governance documents or the theological frameworks.

This.

A father’s hands. A son’s foot in the dark. Three words in the early morning silence.

The Neches River flowing.

The comic books. The handprints on the ceiling. The dogs on the sandbar. The voicemail. The 12:50 a.m. The eight-grade suit. The blue eyes at two days old.

Let love guide you.

I am trying, Joshua.

I am starting now.

I am not hiding anymore.

A Note on What This Book Is

This is not a finished memoir. It is the beginning of one, written on a single day — February 28, 2026 — when something that had been locked for sixty-eight years came loose.

The pages that follow will tell the longer story. The 44 acres in Buna, Texas. Robert and Lavee. Grandfather Truman and the land. The Neches River as geography and sacrament. The Eagle Scout years. Father Vincent. The BSEE from Lamar in 1981. New Signals Engineering. The house church in the years after Joshua died. The twenty years of weekly Bible studies. The awakening at Emmaus Walk #51 in the year 2000. The darkness that preceded it. The shame that never quite left. Leisa, for forty-six years, and what it costs and what it gives to be loved faithfully by a woman who sees you clearly.

All of that is the book. But this — the dream, the letter, the foot of the bed, the handprints on the ceiling, the voicemail — this is the spine of it.

Everything else is commentary on what a man carried alone for too long and what it looked like when he finally set it down.

The white symbol is not dramatic. It is repeated calm in repeated storms. It is an honest sentence written by a man who is tired of hiding. It is a hand reaching down in the dark to touch a sleeping boy’s foot and say three words before the world begins.

I love you, Joshua.

I am still saying it.

Bodily Resurrection Is Not Optional

A lot of Christians have quietly absorbed an idea that isn’t actually Christian.

The idea goes something like this: the body is temporary, the soul is what really matters, and when we die the goal is to escape physical existence into something purely spiritual.

That’s Greek philosophy. It’s not the Bible.
In John 5:28–29, Jesus says all who are in the graves will hear His voice. Graves contain bodies. The resurrection Jesus is describing is physical — not metaphorical, not merely spiritual, not symbolic.

And for those who may quietly wonder about cremation — Christian hope is not dependent on the condition of physical remains. Scripture already accounts for bodies lost to decay, fire, or sea, and still declares that all will hear His voice. Cremation does not undo resurrection any more than burial guarantees it. The God who formed Adam from dust is not hindered by ashes. Our confidence rests not in preservation, but in the power of Christ, who calls the dead to life.

The early church died defending exactly this point.

Christian hope isn’t escape from the physical. It’s the redemption of it.

If you’ve lost someone you love, that matters. Their body is not gone from God’s care. It is waiting.

When the Work Changes: Faithfulness in a Season of ALS

There are moments in ministry when the work does not increase—it changes.

This is one of those moments.

Recently, we learned that Bob Cash has been diagnosed with ALS. Those three letters carry weight far beyond their size. They bring grief, uncertainty, and a future that must now be approached more slowly and more gently than before.

In moments like this, it is tempting to rush into action—to organize, to explain, to plan, to speak confidently about what God is doing. But Scripture and wisdom both tell us that some seasons call not for more activity, but for deeper faithfulness.

This is one of those seasons.

Honoring God by Resisting Easy Answers

ALS is not a lesson to be decoded or a symbol to be leveraged. It is a real, painful disease that brings real loss. Faithfulness does not require us to explain it away or to wrap it in spiritual language that makes us more comfortable.

The Bible gives us permission to lament.

Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of His friend.

To honor God now is to tell the truth: this is hard, and it is grievous—and God is still present.

Honoring Bob by Preserving Dignity

Bob is not his diagnosis. He is still a pastor, a leader, a friend, and a man made in the image of God.

One of the quiet temptations in moments like this is to begin treating someone as if they are already gone—speaking for them, organizing around them, or redefining their role without their voice. That is not love. It is fear disguised as efficiency.

Honoring Bob means allowing him to remain himself for as long as he is able, and allowing transitions to happen with consent, clarity, and grace—not urgency.

The Ministry of Presence

There is a kind of ministry that does not preach sermons or lead meetings. It sits. It listens. It shows up without fixing.

This is not passive ministry. It is costly ministry.

Presence requires patience.

Silence requires courage.

Walking at another person’s pace requires humility.

In this season, presence will matter more than productivity.

Guarding the Church from False Urgency

Churches often struggle with suffering. We want to move quickly to hope language, legacy language, or celebration language. We want to resolve the tension before it has done its holy work.

But Christian hope is not denial. It is trust in God within grief, not around it.

To love well now means giving space for sorrow, prayer, and honest emotion—without spectacle, without pressure, and without pretending that pain must be rushed past.

A Word About Strength

Strength in the kingdom of God does not always look like endurance without rest. Sometimes it looks like restraint, shared responsibility, and knowing when not to speak.

Even Jesus withdrew.

Even Jesus rested.

Even Jesus asked others to watch and pray with Him.

None of us are meant to carry this alone.

Walking Forward Together

We do not yet know what the road ahead will look like. We do know this: God is faithful, Bob is deeply loved, and this season calls us to walk more slowly, more prayerfully, and more honestly than before.

Our calling now is simple, though not easy:

To be present.

To be gentle.

To tell the truth.

To trust God without forcing meaning.

That is not lesser faith.

That is mature faith.

Life story

1958 space. My birth

1965 lost in space. Gemini

1969 Armstrong on moon

1971 Grand Canyon

1974 house fire

1976 senior year

1980 marriage

1984 Joshua

1986 fertility

1993 exit GSU

1995 new signals

1999 lost in myself

2000 lost in Jesus

2002 Joshua

2015 end of new signals

2019 back to consulting

2020 elektrafi

2022 back to L&W

2023 evergreen

The Hound of Heaven (Retold: John’s Story)
inspired by Francis Thompson

I fled Him—
Not with wild rebellion,
but with a mask, a schedule,
a smile I wore to church.
I buried myself in roles,
in performance,
in the lie:
I am not enough.

He followed.

Through my wife’s quiet loyalty,
through the voice that said,
“This is not who you are.”
Through Leisa’s love—stubborn, undeserved—
He kept whispering,
even when I had stopped listening.

I fled Him—
into ambition, distraction,
self-justification.
Into the ache of not being seen,
not even by myself.
I believed the lie was my truth.
That unworthiness was my name.

But still—
He followed.

With unhurried pace,
with measured mercy,
with deliberate grace.

He did not break the door.
He knocked.

And when I lost my way,
He left signs:
A friend’s invitation.
A weekend I didn’t want.
A table with a name—
The Living Word.
He was already speaking
before I could understand the words.

I fled Him—
into rage and grief,
into the night my son died.
Into the scream that emptied my soul
in the dark of our driveway.

And still—
He was there.

I didn’t feel Him.
Didn’t want Him.
But He was already holding me
when I had nothing left to hold.

Twelve fifty AM.
A detail on a death certificate.
The same moment I looked at my phone.
I thought it was coincidence.
But it was grace—
etched in eternal ink.

I fled Him,
but I never outran Him.
Because prevenient grace does not chase to conquer—
it chases to claim.

And even as I sat in silence,
too wounded to respond,
He stayed.

Even as I forgot His face,
He remembered mine.

Even as I questioned His love,
He was writing my calling.

Even as I buried my son,
He was planting seeds of purpose.

And now—
I do not run.

Now I walk.
Sometimes I limp.
But I walk with the One
who never stopped walking with me.

A Life of Purpose

Faith, Engineering, and Quiet Service

John Edwin Hargrove

Born January 24, 1958
Kirbyville, Texas

Dedication

To Leisa,
my partner in all things,

To Joshua,
whose brief life illuminated what matters most,

To the legacy bearers who come after,
carrying forward what was given to us.

Foreword

PART ONE: ROOTS AND INHERITANCE

The Forty-Third Generation: An Epic of Inheritance
Ancestry and Heritage

PART TWO: FORMATION YEARS (1958–1976)

Chapter 1: Roots in Buna — Family, Faith, and the Land
Chapter 2: Troop 44 — The Shaping Years

PART THREE: BUILDING YEARS (1976–2002)

Chapter 3: College, Marriage, and the Engineering Path
Chapter 4: Professional Life and Community Roots

PART FOUR: THE TURNING POINT (2000–2005)

Chapter 5: Spiritual Awakening and the Loss of Joshua
Chapter 6: Treasured Memories from 2001

PART FIVE: MATURE SERVICE (2006–2025)

Chapter 7: Influencers in Life — The People Who Shaped Us
Chapter 8: A Life of Quiet Leadership
Chapter 9: Reflections at Sixty-Seven

PART SIX: ONGOING JOURNEY

A Prayer Journey: Seven Movements Toward Wholeness

Appendices

Timeline of John Edwin Hargrove (1958–2025)
Complete Ancestral Framework

Foreword

This is not a biography written by an outsider. This is a life story written from within—the accumulated reflections, memories, and documents of a man who has lived through six decades of purpose, struggle, faith, and service.

John Edwin Hargrove was born in a small East Texas town to parents who modeled integrity, creativity, and responsibility. He grew up carrying both the weight and the gift of a twelve-century legacy of which he was largely unaware. He would become an engineer, an entrepreneur, a father, a widower, a community leader, and a servant of both God and neighbor.

This book gathers the written work of recent years—journals, memoir pieces, ancestral narratives, and reflections on a life still unfolding. It is organized chronologically, thematically, and spiritually to tell a complete story: where John came from, who shaped him, what he has built, what he has lost, and what he has learned.

It is the story of ordinary faithfulness—the kind that builds communities, sustains families, and endures through loss without losing its capacity to hope.

It is also the story of a man who still feels, at sixty-seven, like he’s just beginning.

May you find in these pages something that speaks to your own journey.

PART ONE: ROOTS AND INHERITANCE

Every life is shaped by forces that precede it. Family heritage, ancestral courage, inherited values—these things move through us like water through limestone, invisible but shaping everything.

For John Hargrove, that inheritance is remarkably deep. It stretches back twelve centuries, from Welsh kings to French refugees to Carolina settlers to Texas pioneers. It is the story of people who chose faith over comfort, service over self-preservation, and community over isolation.

To understand John, we must first understand where he came from.

The Forty-Third Generation: An Epic of Inheritance

This is the story of a twelve-century inheritance. It begins in the misty mountains of Wales, passes through the persecution of French Huguenots, spreads across colonial Carolina, and ultimately reaches East Texas—where a man named John Hargrove carries forward what his ancestors fought to preserve.

From Merfyn the Freckled to Modern Day

In the year 825, a Welsh prince with freckled skin and iron determination consolidated his kingdom against Norse raiders and Mercian armies. His name was Merfyn Frych. He refused to surrender. He held the line. This is the first inheritance: the refusal to abandon what matters, no matter the cost.

Eight centuries later, his descendants faced a different kind of siege. When King Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes in 1685, French Protestants called Huguenots faced an impossible choice: abandon faith or abandon homeland. The Richbourg family chose faith. They joined 200,000 refugees fleeing to the New World.

This is the second inheritance: the willingness to sacrifice comfort for conviction.

The Carolina lowcountry was not kind to its new arrivals. Swamps and fever, brutal summers, uncertain harvests. But they persevered. They were merchants and artisans, craftsmen and farmers. They built. This is the third inheritance: the capacity to build from nothing.

The Richbourgs never stopped moving. From Carolina to Georgia to Alabama to Mississippi to Texas. Each generation carried forward the same qualities: faith, determination, service, and the stubborn refusal to abandon responsibility.

Now comes John Hargrove. The forty-third generation of a line that began before the Norman Conquest. He carries the same blood that flowed through Merfyn the Freckled, mixed with a thousand tributaries but still carrying the same essential qualities. The same determination that enabled a Welsh prince to hold his kingdom now drives an engineer in East Texas to work when he should rest. The same faith that carried Huguenots across an ocean now makes it impossible for him to set down responsibilities that perhaps he should let others carry.

The inheritance is there. It moves through him like water through limestone—invisible, shaping, persistent.

But inheritance is both gift and weight. The strengths that saved his ancestors can become the very things that threaten him. Resilience can harden into inability to yield. Service can curdle into inability to receive. Faith can transform into weight that no single pair of shoulders should be asked to bear.

This is John’s journey: to understand what he has inherited, honor it, and learn to carry it differently—with grace, with help, with the wisdom that some burdens were never meant to be borne alone.

The Web of Names: A Brief Ancestral Framework

Your family tree spans approximately 1,465 individuals and reaches deep into early American colonial families. It includes:

English Ancestry from Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia—families like Pace, Smithwick, Wright, Richardson, and Pearce. These are the colonial settlers and frontier pioneers who established the American South.

French Huguenot heritage through the Richbourg/Richebourg line—Protestant refugees who fled persecution and built communities in the Carolinas, then pushed westward.

Scots-Irish and Scottish pioneers who brought frontier independence and community values to the rural South.

Medieval British connections through several documented gentry lines—York, Plantagenet, Tudor, Howard—appearing through early Virginia families.

Welsh, Irish, and other Western European lines, adding texture and resilience to the overall inheritance.

This is not a heritage of wealth or titles. It is a heritage of faithfulness, courage, hard work, and the determination to build something that lasts. From the mountains of Gwynedd to the piney woods of East Texas, across twelve centuries and an ocean, through persecution and migration and war and peace, the line endures.

It endures because each generation chose to honor what was given to them by transforming it for those who followed.

That is the true inheritance. That is the story John carries.

PART TWO: FORMATION YEARS (1958–1976)

Chapter 1: Roots in Buna — Family, Faith, and the Land

I was born on a cold Friday morning, January 24, 1958, in Kirbyville, Texas, but my life’s soil was in Buna, a place that—once it has claimed you—never truly lets you go. The pines here grow tall and straight, the summers hum with cicadas, and the air smells faintly of pine resin, red dirt, and whatever your neighbor is cooking for supper. It was here, in this small town tucked into the corner of East Texas, that my roots sank deep.

My father, Robert Edwin Hargrove, was a man who carried his Korean War service in quiet dignity. He was as comfortable with a wrench as he was with a fishing rod, able to coax life back into broken machinery or find the perfect spot on the Neches River for catfish. He taught me that work wasn’t just about making a living—it was about doing it right, whether anyone noticed or not.

My mother, Lavee Richbourg Hargrove, was a blend of creativity, grit, and gentle stubbornness. She could sew clothes that fit better than anything from a store, make a meal stretch farther than seemed possible, and still have the energy to craft something beautiful. Her hands were never idle, and neither was her faith.

We lived on forty-four acres just south of town, with a yard full of chickens, the occasional stubborn dog, and the kind of peace you only find when the nearest neighbor is a good walk away. The house was modest, but the table was never empty, and my parents worked side-by-side to make sure of it.

The Grandparents’ Influence

On my mother’s side, Mozell Bellomy Richbourg was a steady presence—a woman of kindness who had a habit of serving “coffee milk” to the grandchildren, a sweet mix that made us feel grown. My grandfather, George Truman Richbourg, was a dreamer and a draftsman, and I can still remember the smell of pencil shavings and paper in his workroom. He taught me the art of drawing plans, the patience of careful lines, and the belief that ideas could become real things.

On my father’s side, Melvina Denman Hargrove was tall, constant, and caring. My grandfather, James Gaius Hargrove, was a character—always with a nickel in one pocket and a pinch of tobacco in the other, with a fondness for jalapeño peppers that seemed to defy nature. From them, I learned the value of constancy, humor, and holding your own in a conversation.

Uncles and aunts formed a kind of extended safety net—each unique, each memorable. Uncle Tommy Richbourg, Uncle James Weldon Hargrove—who could have walked straight out of a John Wayne film—Uncle George Hardy Hargrove, who knew how to have fun, and Uncle Bill and Aunt Doris Kirkpatrick, whose combination of hard work and kindness taught me what family meant outside the walls of your own home.

School Days in Buna

Buna schools were small enough that you knew the names of every kid in your grade, and the teachers had a way of becoming permanent fixtures in your life. From Mrs. Iris Pope in first grade to the string of dedicated educators in high school—Coach Wade Reese, Larry Hatch, Billie Jean Clark, Steve Hyden, Harold Simmons, Bob Garner, and Anthony Michalski—each teacher added something to the foundation being laid.

These were people who expected excellence. They did not coddle or lower standards. But they also believed their students could meet those standards. That belief itself was a gift.

Chapter 2: Troop 44 — The Shaping Years

Scouting was the crucible where my character was forged. Under the guidance of Father Vincent, Billy Rowles, and Johnny Marble, I pushed myself beyond what I thought I could do. At thirteen, I earned my Eagle Scout rank—completing fifty-one merit badges and the mile swim. That mile in the water was as much a test of grit as any academic challenge, and I learned that leadership often looks like steady persistence rather than grand gestures.

The Service Project

For my Eagle service project, I chose the old Bessmay Cemetery. A gentleman whose name I cannot recall had family buried there (probably Bill Jones). The cemetery had fallen into disarray from decades of neglect—headstones tilted, brush overgrown, the dead forgotten. He organized everything: transportation, food, drink, tools. There were four of us. We cleared and cleaned and straightened what we could. Service to those who could not repay us.

By every measure that mattered to the world, I had succeeded. Eagle Scout at fourteen. Presidential recognition. Family pride. Community respect.

And underneath, something else.

The body was changing. Puberty arrived—unbidden, unwelcome, undeniable. Things stirred that I had no language for, no framework to understand. I felt guilty. I felt hollow. Dark thoughts came—not thoughts I chose, but thoughts that arrived and would not leave.

A sense of unworthiness.

The boy being applauded at church was not the boy I knew myself to be. If they knew what I carried, they would not applaud. So I learned to wear the mask—the good Methodist scouting mask. I smiled. I achieved. I showed up. And I told no one.

A lie had taken root: that I was not what I appeared to be, that something was fundamentally wrong with me, that the gap between the public self and the private self was proof of my corruption. I would carry that lie for twenty-nine more years before something finally broke it open.

Friends and Foundations

My earliest friends were more like brothers: Elray Brown in second grade—a genuinely good guy. Dale Miller from junior high onward, with horses and cool tech gadgets. Casey Walker, calm and strong, from high school onward. Tim Hudson, my church and college companion—determined and solid. Terry Yeates, from elementary school and church—a true friend through every season.

These early years were a mosaic of family, school, and scouting, stitched together by the rhythms of small-town Texas life—Friday night football, church on Sundays, the hum of summer insects, and the occasional sound of my father’s tools in the shop. I didn’t know it then, but every moment was preparing me for a life of building.

PART THREE: BUILDING YEARS (1976–2002)

Chapter 3: College, Marriage, and the Engineering Path

I began pre-engineering studies at Lamar University in 1976, struggling initially with calculus but eventually mastering it through persistence. My early work included student engineering roles and cooperative internships in telecommunications. In 1978, I began a student engineering position at Gulf States Utilities (GSU), beginning what would become a fifteen-year career with the company.

In 1975, during my senior year of high school, I met Leisa. We spoke for the first time at a graduation ceremony. Over the next several months, something quietly grew between us. We began dating in November of that year and became engaged in 1977.

On March 7, 1980, while both still in college, we married. It was a decision of sheer brilliance on my part. We were poor, we were in school, we faced financial strain during the final college year—but we chose each other. That partnership has sustained everything that followed.

In 1981, I graduated from Lamar University with my Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering (BSEE). In 1983, Leisa and I began attempting to start a family. In April 1984, our son Joshua Blake Hargrove was born—via C-section, a bright and compassionate young man whose life, though short, would touch many.

In the mid-1980s, I was licensed as a Professional Engineer in Texas. My work at GSU included telecommunications, SCADA, microwave systems, and protective relaying across more than 30 locations across a multi-state network. It was formative, high-pressure, and rewarding—an environment that shaped how I see systems, risk, and people.

Chapter 4: Professional Life and Community Roots

In 1993, I left GSU as the utility prepared for the Entergy merger. I joined Lockard & White in Houston for two years, managing major infrastructure projects. One of the most memorable was a 100-hop analog-to-digital microwave upgrade for Transcontinental Gas Pipeline.

That experience reignited my entrepreneurial spirit. I wanted to serve clients directly and build something of my own.

In 1995, I founded New Signals Engineering Corporation. The early days were lean and intense—every project mattered, and I wore every hat. But the work was good, and God opened doors. In 1996, my former boss at GSU, Bob Pohl, hired my firm to design and implement a 100 Mbps fiber ring for the City of College Station. That project not only cemented my credibility—it changed the trajectory of my life.

From 1997 through 2014, I ran New Signals full time, serving electric cooperatives, municipalities, pipeline operators, and Fortune 500 clients. My work extended to public safety radio systems, oil and gas SCADA, offshore communications in Africa, and early cybersecurity practices. Whether it was a remote fire tower in the Big Thicket or an urban fiber buildout, I showed up with one aim: to serve well and solve the right problem.

We lived a good life. We had financial success. But something was missing—a deeper sense of purpose. I was building systems, but I was not building community. I was making money, but I was not making meaning.

I was successful by every worldly measure. And I was spiritually adrift.

PART FOUR: THE TURNING POINT (2000–2005)

Chapter 5: Spiritual Awakening and the Loss of Joshua

In October 2000, at the age of 42, something shifted. I attended Walk to Emmaus #51 in Orange, Texas. It was a three-day spiritual retreat designed to deepen faith, build community, and encounter Christ in a new way. I sat at the Table of the Living Word. And in those three days, something broke open inside me.

I experienced the realization that Jesus loves me—not abstractly, not theologically, but personally and completely. This I know. It was a moment when I truly knew it for the first time, and realized I had been living in ignorance before. That moment alone saved me from what was to come in less than two years.

Late in 2000, I began disciplined Bible study and prayer. Leisa and I increased our church involvement. In 2001, I became a Certified Lay Speaker in the United Methodist Church. That same year, we began serving as Youth Directors at Buna FUMC, hosting home Bible studies for young people. I worked the Beaumont District Summer Camp, helping lead a high school group.

I was being built new. The faith I had inherited from my mother was being activated in me. The twelve-century legacy of faith was becoming personal, alive, immediate.

And then, in June 2002, Joshua died.

He was eighteen years old. A car accident on a June morning changed everything in an instant. The boy who had been born in 1984 during a moment of joy was gone. The future I had imagined—watching him graduate, go to college, build a life—simply ceased to exist.

Grief is not something you recover from. It is something you learn to carry. Missing him is not a weakness—it is a testament that what you shared was real and sacred and irreplaceable.

For two years after his death, Leisa and I served as Youth Directors. We continued hosting Bible studies. We were present for teenagers going through their own struggles, their own questions, their own dark nights. And through that service, we found a way to honor Joshua’s memory by pouring into the young people he had known and loved.

In December 2005, I was licensed as a Minister of the Gospel with the World Ministry Fellowship—a non-denominational ordination that reflected my move toward deeper spiritual engagement and away from the strict structures of institutional religion.

The loss of Joshua broke me open. And in that brokenness, God did something unexpected: He transformed my grief into a capacity to serve others in theirs.

Chapter 6: Treasured Memories from 2001

Weeks after 9/11, as our nation reeled and grieved, a father and his sons found moments of light. Two movie nights in late 2001 still stand out like mile-markers on the long road of memory.

November 30, 2001: Behind Enemy Lines

After a meal at Black Eyed Pea in Beaumont, we sat together at Tinseltown and watched Behind Enemy Lines. The film’s heart was simple and strong: courage under fire, loyalty that doesn’t break, and the determination to come home. It was a story of rescue, grit, and holding onto hope when it seems impossible. In those months after the towers fell, those themes echoed what many people were feeling—fear, resilience, and the search for redemption.

The film followed Lt. Chris Burnett, a Navy flight officer shot down over hostile territory. As he raced across snow-covered mountains and war-torn villages, Admiral Leslie Reigart defied orders to launch an unsanctioned rescue mission. The film emphasized that loyalty, sacrifice, and the value of a single human life were worth risking everything.

December 1, 2001: Spy Game

The next night, Joshua and I returned to Tinseltown for Spy Game. We ate at Taste of China, Joshua’s favorite place. The movie carried a different tone: sacrifice, mentorship, hidden battles, and the cost of loyalty in a complicated world.

Nathan Muir, a veteran CIA operative on the edge of retirement, learns that his protégé, Tom Bishop, has been arrested in China during an unauthorized mission to rescue a woman he loves. While the CIA prepares to let Bishop die quietly, Muir fights a covert battle to secretly fund and orchestrate a rescue operation.

Through layered flashbacks—Vietnam, Cold War Berlin, Beirut—the film reveals how Muir shaped Bishop, trained him, and how their relationship evolved from teacher-student to something like father and son. Both men ultimately choose love and loyalty over institutional protection.

Why These Memories Matter

The films were action, noise, and fast-moving plots. But what stayed with me wasn’t the thrill. It was the time. A father with his son. Laughter. Popcorn. Easy conversations on the drive home. A sense of normalcy returning after national trauma.

Years later, I would understand that both films spoke directly to patterns in my own life: sacrifice for those you love, choosing people over systems, and the long, hard road toward redemption. They also spoke to what matters most—not institutions or power or comfort, but the bonds we forge with people, the willingness to rescue and protect, and the grace that meets us when we’re willing to carry weight for someone else.

I treasure these memories with Joshua and Eli. They remind me that the Lord meets us not only in prayer and worship, but also in shared meals, movie nights, and the simple joy of being together. Even in uncertain times, Jesus holds us steady and invites us to cherish the people entrusted to us.

Now, more than twenty years later, when I watch those films again each year, I am visiting the shape of who we were together. I am touching memory gently, honoring a son who mattered deeply, and being reminded that love never truly dies—it simply transforms into a different kind of presence, a different kind of prayer.

PART FIVE: MATURE SERVICE (2006–2025)

Chapter 7: Influencers in Life — The People Who Shaped Us

Every life is shaped by forces and people who come before us. For John Hargrove, the list is long and distinctive—parents and grandparents, teachers and mentors, friends and family who contributed to who he would become.

His mother Lavee Richbourg Hargrove was a woman of tireless energy and boundless creativity. Whether she was sewing, upholstering furniture for neighbors, painting cypress knees into whimsical Santa figures, or organizing community events, she demonstrated that work could be both purposeful and beautiful.

His father Robert Edwin Hargrove complemented her creative energy with practical intelligence. He understood science as the working principles behind the physical world—how engines ran, how crops grew, how machines could be repaired and made useful again. Together, they created a home where children grew up knowing the value of honest work, the satisfaction of creating with one’s hands, and the importance of both imagination and practical skill.

In scouting, Father Vincent set clear expectations and expected the boys to meet them. Billy Rowles and Johnny Marble provided practical leadership and patient instruction. They taught John what it meant to lead with quiet confidence rather than loud command.

In high school, teachers like Larry Hatch, who wove narratives that made abstract concepts concrete and helped John understand the relationship between science and faith. Coach Wade Reese embodied excellence—calm, determined, and completely devoted to bringing out the best in his students. Anthony Michalski brought excellence in music and the discipline that ensemble performance requires.

Later, there was Leisa—the love of his life, the constant presence that made all other achievements possible. And Joshua, whose brief life illuminated what matters most, whose death transformed grief into compassion, and whose memory continues to shape priorities and perspectives.

This is the deepest lesson: we are not self-made but community-made. The best response to such a gift is not pride in personal achievement but gratitude for all the hands that shaped us—and a commitment to becoming, in our turn, worthy influences on those who come after.

Chapter 8: A Life of Quiet Leadership

In 2006, I became a Certified Faith-Based Counselor through the International Institute of Faith-Based Counseling in Beaumont. From 2006 through 2014, I continued New Signals Engineering while deepening my commitment to faith-based service and community leadership.

In 2015, I joined Sam Houston Electric Cooperative as Engineer II. My largest project there was leading the design and deployment of a 72,000-meter Advanced Metering Infrastructure (AMI) system. The system required RF planning, cyber segmentation, and deep coordination across IT, SCADA, and operational leadership. I also re-architected the cooperative’s WAN into a Layer 3 structure, introducing OSPF and BGP protocols to support network resilience.

In 2019, I stepped into the role of Chief Technology Officer at East Texas Electric Cooperative, providing strategic guidance for ten member co-ops and their G&T provider.

But in 2020, something unexpected happened. During the COVID-19 pandemic, rural families in Buna had no access to reliable broadband. Schools were closed. Remote work was impossible. Families needed connectivity, and no one was providing it.

I was approached by former clients who asked me to build a wireless internet service provider from scratch. I said yes.

For the next two years, I worked over 3,900 hours of overtime—designing backhaul, erecting towers, integrating routers, and building a support and billing system from the ground up. By 2022, we had 725 customers and were generating $55,000 a month in revenue. More than that, we were changing lives. Kids could attend school online. Families could work from home. Businesses could stay open.

We turned crisis into connectivity.

In 2023, I returned to Lockard & White as a Senior Telecommunications Engineer and became Chief Operating Officer at Evergreen Technology Solutions. At Evergreen, I lead our broadband buildout across Jasper and Newton counties, including VOIP integration, public safety radio, library infrastructure, and digital equity partnerships.

Alongside all this, I’ve never stopped serving locally. I was President of the Buna Chamber of Commerce. I co-founded Buna Regional Economic Development LLC. I serve on the board of the Buna Public Library and help guide it toward becoming a digital and cultural hub. I lead Bible studies, support Chrysalis and Emmaus ministries, and do what I can to serve the people and places God put in my path.

When I look back, what I see is not a career, but a calling. A life built on systems, yes—but more than that, a life built on faith, integrity, and quiet service. I’m still learning. Still building. Still showing up. And that, for me, is enough.

Chapter 9: Reflections at Sixty-Seven

There are moments in life when movies, memories, and years of lived experience weave themselves into a single thread. Looking back from sixty-seven, I can see how the stories that once entertained me now speak with deeper meaning.

Standing between darkness and light is perhaps the truest description of a full life. Some chapters are marked by brightness—family time, professional achievement, the satisfaction of work well done. Other chapters are marked by shadow—loss, grief, the weight of responsibilities that seem never-ending, the isolation that comes from carrying too much for too long.

At thirteen, I achieved something most people never accomplish. I earned the Eagle Scout rank. I received letters of commendation from the President. I was applauded at church. By every measure that mattered to the world, I had succeeded.

And underneath, something else was happening. Doubts. Shame. A sense of unworthiness. A lie that took root: that I was fundamentally wrong, that the gap between my public self and private self was proof of my corruption. I carried that lie for twenty-nine years before something finally broke it open.

In October 2000, at the age of 42, I attended a spiritual retreat. In three days, I experienced the realization that Jesus loves me—not abstractly, not theologically, but personally and completely. That moment alone saved me from what was coming.

Twenty months later, my son died. A car accident on a June morning. Everything I had imagined for the future simply ceased to exist. Grief does not fade because love does not fade. The ache remains because the bond remains. Missing him is not weakness—it is a sign that what we shared was real, sacred, and irreplaceable.

I have learned that we are shaped by forces larger than ourselves. A twelve-century inheritance of faith, determination, and service moves through me like water through limestone—invisible, persistent, shaping everything. The qualities that sustained my ancestors through exile and frontier hardship now drive me to carry weight that perhaps I should let others help with.

I have also learned that the weight I carry does not define me. What defines me is the love I choose, the faith I hold, the light I walk toward, and the redemption that meets me along the way.

At sixty-seven, this is what I know: Ordinary faithfulness—the kind that builds communities, sustains families, and endures through loss without losing its capacity to hope—is more powerful than any dramatic achievement. Quiet service matters. Showing up matters. Choosing people over systems matters. And grace is more real than any of us realize until we desperately need it.

I still feel like an eighteen-year-old with forty-nine years of experience. I still don’t feel completely sure of myself. But that never stops me from trying anyway. Life has been a mix of near-disasters, small victories, and occasional moments of brilliance. Through it all, I’ve realized that work was never just work—it was always purpose. And somehow, I’m still here, still learning, still trying.

For John Hargrove, PE—still becoming, still held by grace, still learning to carry his inheritance differently.

PART SIX: ONGOING JOURNEY

A Prayer Journey: Seven Movements Toward Wholeness

This prayer journey is not a formula to fix what feels broken. It is an invitation to walk slowly through the landscape of your soul with the One who made you and knows you completely.

Each of the seven movements addresses one of the challenges we have identified in reflection—not as problems to be solved, but as places where grace wants to meet you. The qualities that feel burdensome are not separate from the qualities that make you who you are. They are the shadow cast by your light. They are the places where your greatest strengths, pushed too far, begin to work against you.

Take as long as you need with each movement. There is no schedule. There is no deadline. The journey is the destination.

Movement One: The Weight You Were Never Meant to Carry Alone

You take on too much. The people who love you know this. And still the pattern continues—one more project, one more commitment, one more responsibility. This is not weakness. This is the shadow of your greatest strength. You have been given a capacity for responsibility that most people cannot imagine.

But notice what Scripture says about burdens: ‘Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ’ (Galatians 6:2). The law of Christ is mutual. The economy of grace is reciprocal. You were designed to give AND to receive. To carry AND to be carried.

When you take on every burden alone, you rob others of the opportunity to fulfill the law of Christ in their own lives. Your self-sufficiency, however well-intentioned, becomes a barrier to the very community you are trying to build.

A PRAYER FOR RELEASE:

Lord Jesus, You who carried the weight of the whole world’s sin on a cross, forgive me for believing I must carry every burden alone. Forgive me for the pride hidden in my self-sufficiency. Forgive me for robbing others of the chance to serve.

Teach me the grace of open hands. Show me which burdens are mine to carry and which I have picked up because I did not trust anyone else to carry them well. Give me the courage to set down what was never mine.

Send me fellow carriers. Not to replace my work, but to share it. In Your name, who yoked Yourself to us that we might find rest. Amen.

Movement Two: The Sabbath You Have Forgotten

You struggle to rest. The word itself may feel like accusation—rest, the thing you cannot do, the thing you have failed at. But rest is not laziness. Rest is trust made visible. When you rest, you declare with your body what your mouth may struggle to say: that the world does not depend on your continuous effort, that God is still at work when you are not.

God built rest into the structure of creation. Six days of work, one day of rest—not as punishment, but as gift. The Sabbath was made FOR you. It exists because you need it.

A PRAYER FOR SABBATH:

God of the seventh day, I confess that I have forgotten how to rest. I have made work my idol and productivity my measure. I have believed the lie that my worth depends on my output.

Teach me to stop. Teach me to breathe. Let my rest become an act of worship—a declaration that You are God and I am not. Give me the courage to close the laptop, silence the phone, and simply be. Restore the Sabbath to my life—not as burden, but as blessing. In the name of the One who rested on the seventh day. Amen.

Movement Three: The Grief That Has Not Been Given Its Due

You feel the weight of loss and expectations deeply. Perhaps more deeply than you have allowed yourself to acknowledge. The losses stack up—people gone, seasons ended, hopes deferred, dreams that shifted.

Because you are strong, because you are the one others lean on, you have not always given grief the space it demands. You have pushed through. But grief that is not grieved does not disappear. It goes underground. It becomes the weight you carry without naming.

Jesus did not say ‘Blessed are those who get over it quickly.’ He said ‘Blessed are those who mourn’ (Matthew 5:4). Mourning is not weakness. Mourning is the soul’s honest reckoning with reality. And the promise attached to mourning is not that the pain will vanish, but that comfort will come.

A PRAYER FOR MOURNING:

Lord of the valley of the shadow, I come to You with grief I have not fully named. I bring the losses I have pushed aside. I name them now: [Pause here and name what comes to mind—people, seasons, hopes, dreams.]

I do not ask You to take the grief away. I ask You to meet me in it. And in time, let the mourning bear its fruit. Let me become more tender toward others in their grief because I have faced my own. In the name of the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief. Amen.

Movement Four: The Perfection That Imprisons

Your perfectionism creates pressure instead of peace. The standard you hold for yourself is relentless, always just out of reach. This, too, is the shadow of a strength. You care deeply about excellence. But somewhere along the way, the pursuit of excellence became bondage to perfection—and perfection is not a gift from God but a demand from the enemy.

God does not require perfection from you. If He did, He would not have sent Jesus. The entire gospel is predicated on the assumption that you cannot be perfect, that you need a righteousness that is not your own.

And notice what Paul discovered: ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness’ (2 Corinthians 12:9). God’s power is made perfect in weakness—not in your strength, not in your flawless performance. In your weakness.

A PRAYER FOR IMPERFECTION:

Perfect God, I confess that I have tried to earn what can only be given. I have believed that my value depends on my performance. I have exhausted myself chasing a standard that was never required of me.

Teach me to embrace ‘good enough’ as gift, not compromise. Let my worth rest in the finished work of Christ rather than my own striving. Let my imperfections become windows where Your light breaks through. In the name of the One whose strength is made perfect in weakness. Amen.

Movement Five: The Help You Cannot Ask For

You have difficulty asking for help, especially when you are overwhelmed. The very moments when help is most needed are the moments when asking feels most impossible.

But listen: ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up’ (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). The tragedy is not the falling—everyone falls. The tragedy is isolation.

Asking for help is not admission of defeat. It is acknowledgment of design. God made you for community. When you refuse to ask for help, you are rejecting the design of the Designer.

And consider this: there are people in your life who want to help you. Who are waiting for permission. Your refusal to ask is not protecting anyone—it is depriving them of the joy of giving.

A PRAYER FOR RECEIVING:

God who designed me for community, I confess that I have believed the lie of self-sufficiency. I have treated asking for help as weakness rather than wisdom.

Give me words to ask for what I need. Give me courage to be vulnerable with people who have earned my trust. Show me who is waiting. Open my eyes to the helpers You have placed in my path. In the name of the One who sent disciples in pairs, who washed feet, who asked a woman at a well for water. Amen.

Movement Six: The Silence That Swallows

You internalize stress until it becomes heavy silence. The weight you carry does not always show. It settles deeper, into the bones, into the places where words cannot reach.

David knew this silence. He wrote about it in Psalm 32:3, 5: ‘When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity… and you forgave the guilt of my sin.’ But notice what broke the silence: acknowledgment. When David stopped keeping silent and started speaking—even speaking what was hard to say—forgiveness came. Release came.

Your silence may feel like strength. But silence that swallows is not strength. It is slow suffocation. The stress that is not spoken finds other ways to express itself: in the body, in the relationships, in the soul that gradually goes numb.

A PRAYER FOR VOICE:

God who speaks and creates, I confess that I have kept silent when I should have spoken. I have hidden my stress, my fear, my struggle behind a closed mouth and a calm face.

Give me words, Lord. Even inadequate words. Even stumbling words. Let me break the silence before it breaks me. Send me listeners who will not fix or dismiss. In the name of the Word made flesh, who speaks life into death. Amen.

Movement Seven: The Compassion That Has Run Dry

Compassion fatigue comes from long seasons of serving. You have given and given and given, and there are days when the well feels dry. This is not failure. This is physiology. This is the soul’s honest accounting of what has been spent without adequate replenishment.

Notice what the Shepherd does in Psalm 23:2-3: ‘He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.’ The Shepherd MAKES the sheep lie down. The sheep does not restore itself. The sheep is restored by the Shepherd who knows that even the most devoted follower needs rest, needs quiet, needs restoration.

Compassion fatigue is not a sign that you have failed in love. It is a sign that you have loved so much, so long, so faithfully that you have depleted your reserves. The solution is not to try harder. The solution is to let the Shepherd lead you to quiet waters until the soul is restored.

A PRAYER FOR RESTORATION:

Good Shepherd, I am tired. Not the tiredness that a night’s sleep will fix, but the tiredness that has settled into my soul. I have cared for so many, for so long, that caring itself has become heavy.

Make me lie down, Lord. Lead me to quiet waters. Restore my soul. Let me receive before I give again. Let me be filled before I pour out. Refill what has been emptied. Restore what has been depleted. And in time, when the soul is restored, lead me back to service—not from depletion, but from overflow. In the name of the Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep—and who rose again. Amen.

A Benediction for the Journey

May the God of peace, who through the blood of the eternal covenant brought back from the dead our Lord Jesus, that great Shepherd of the sheep, equip you with everything good for doing his will, and may he work in us what is pleasing to him, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for ever and ever. (Hebrews 13:20-21)

The journey does not end here. This prayer journey is not a destination but a beginning—a doorway into conversations with God that will continue for the rest of your life.

The challenges you have named are real. They will not disappear because you have prayed about them. But something shifts when we bring our struggles into the light. Something changes when we stop hiding our weaknesses and start offering them to God as the raw material of grace.

You are not a man who is “good” or “bad.” You are a man who is human—capable, flawed, hopeful, tired, resilient, and still becoming who you are meant to be. And in the hands of Jesus, even the difficult traits can be reshaped into strength. The parts that feel heavy today may become the very places where light breaks through tomorrow.

May the God of peace equip you with everything good. May He work in you what is pleasing to Him. May the weight you carry become lighter—not because you have set it all down, but because you have learned to carry it differently, and because you have let others carry it with you.

Go in peace. The Shepherd goes with you.

For John,
Still Becoming
Still Held

Appendices

Appendix A: Timeline of John Edwin Hargrove (1958–2025)

January 24, 1958 — Born in Kirbyville, Texas

1958–1964 — Early childhood in Buna; raised on 44 acres; deep exposure to family land and farming

1964–1965 — First grade, Buna schools (Mrs. Iris Pope)

1965–1970 — Elementary school years; school integration (1965); Hawaiian trip; summers on Neches River

1970–1971 — Seventh grade; Grand Canyon hike

1972 — Entered Buna High School

1973 — Earned Eagle Scout rank at age 13; 51 merit badges; Bronze Palms; Mile Swim

1973–1976 — High school years; strong academic performance (A’s and B’s, ranked 10th in class)

1975 — Met Leisa Smith during high school

1976 — Graduated from Buna High School

1976–1981 — Pre-engineering studies and electrical engineering degree at Lamar University

1978 — Began student engineering role at Gulf States Utilities (GSU)

March 7, 1980 — Married Leisa D. Smith

1981 — Graduated BSEE from Lamar University; began full-time engineering career

Mid-1980s — Licensed as Professional Engineer in Texas

April 1984 — Son Joshua Blake Hargrove born

1984–1993 — Career growth at GSU; sporadic church attendance; financial success

1993 — Left GSU as Entergy merger approached

1993–1995 — Consulting engineer at Lockard & White, Houston

1995 — Founded New Signals Engineering Corporation; initial headquarters in Conroe, then Buna

1996 — Designed fiber ring for City of College Station; began 25-year relationship with Sam Houston EC

1995–2000 — Financial success; increasing internal dissatisfaction; minimal spiritual engagement

October 2000 — Attended Walk to Emmaus #51; experienced spiritual awakening

Late 2000 — Began disciplined Bible study and prayer

2001 — Certified Lay Speaker, UMC Texas Conference; became Youth Director at Buna FUMC

November 30, 2001 — Movie night: Behind Enemy Lines with sons

December 1, 2001 — Movie night: Spy Game with Joshua at Taste of China

June 22, 2002 — Joshua died in automobile accident

2002–2005 — Served as Youth Directors at Buna FUMC with Leisa; led home Bible study for youth

2003 — Led Beaumont District Summer Camp (high school group)

2003–present — Served in leadership roles for Emmaus Walks and Chrysalis Flights

2005 — Licensed Minister of the Gospel, World Ministry Fellowship

2006 — Certified Faith-Based Counselor (IIFBC, Beaumont)

2006–2014 — Continued New Signals Engineering; worked with utilities, municipalities, oil & gas

2013 — Father Robert Hargrove died at age 85

2015 — Joined Sam Houston Electric Cooperative as Engineer II

2015–2018 — Led AMI deployment (72,000 meters); re-architected WAN

2019 — Became Chief Technology Officer, East Texas Electric Cooperative

2020 — Launched rural WISP in response to COVID-19 connectivity crisis

2020–2022 — Built WISP from scratch; reached ~725 customers, ~$55,000/month revenue

2023 — Returned to Lockard & White; became COO, Evergreen Technology Solutions

2023–2025 — Led broadband, VOIP, public safety, and community infrastructure projects

2023–2025 — President (past), Buna Chamber of Commerce

February 2023 — Co-founded Buna Regional Economic Development LLC

December 2022 — Joined board of Buna Public Library

Late 2023/Early 2024 — Started Medicare and Social Security; continued full-time work

January 24, 2025 — Age 67; still active in engineering, mentoring, writing, ministry, and community service

Appendix B: Essential Facts About John Edwin Hargrove

PERSONAL INFORMATION
Full Name: John Edwin Hargrove
Date of Birth: January 24, 1958
Place of Birth: Kirbyville, Jasper County, Texas
Current Age: 67

FAMILY
Parents: Robert Edwin Hargrove (d. 2013); Lavee Richbourg Hargrove
Spouse: Leisa D. Smith (married March 7, 1980)
Child: Joshua Blake Hargrove (April 1984 – June 22, 2002)
Primary Residence: 786 FM 253 Rd, Buna, TX

EDUCATION
Bachelor of Science in Electrical Engineering (BSEE)
Lamar University, 1981

PROFESSIONAL LICENSURE
Professional Engineer, State of Texas (licensed mid-1980s)
Life Member, IEEE
Honor Societies: Eta Kappa Nu, Tau Beta Pi

SPIRITUAL
Christened United Methodist (birth to age 20; sporadic until age 42; lay positions 1980–2005)
Certified Lay Speaker, UMC Texas Conference (2001)
Licensed Minister of the Gospel, World Ministry Fellowship (2005)
Certified Faith-Based Counselor, International Institute of Faith-Based Counseling, Beaumont (2006)
Non-denominational faith studies and ministry (2005–present)

PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
Gulf States Utilities (1978–1993) — 15 years; telecommunications engineering
Lockard & White, Houston (1993–1995) — Major infrastructure projects
New Signals Engineering Corporation (founded 1995; operated 1995–2014)
Sam Houston Electric Cooperative (2015–2018) — Engineer II; AMI deployment lead
East Texas Electric Cooperative (2019) — Chief Technology Officer
Rural Wireless ISP (WISP) (2020–2022) — Founded and built from scratch
Lockard & White (2023–present) — Senior Telecommunications Engineer
Evergreen Technology Solutions (2023–present) — Chief Operating Officer

COMMUNITY LEADERSHIP
President, Buna Chamber of Commerce (past, 2023–2025)
Co-founder, Buna Regional Economic Development LLC (Feb 2023)
Board Member, Buna Public Library (Dec 2022–present)
Youth Director, Buna FUMC (2002–2005, with spouse Leisa)
Lay Speaker and Bible study leader (2001–present)
Emmaus and Chrysalis retreat leader (2003–present)

ANCESTRAL HERITAGE
Direct ancestral heritage traces through English colonial families (Virginia, Carolinas, Georgia),
French Huguenot refugees (Richbourg/Richebourg line), Scots-Irish pioneers, and early Texas settlers.
Connects to documented medieval British gentry and royal lines. Approximately 1,465 documented
ancestors spanning 12+ centuries.

Appendix C: A Final Reflection

Standing at the threshold of the later chapters of life, I am able to see the arc of the story more clearly than I could while living it. The achievements, the failures, the losses, the grace—they form a pattern that makes sense now in a way it did not before.

I am the forty-third generation of a line that began when kings wore simple crowns and the world was harder and older. I carry in my blood the faith of Huguenots who crossed an ocean rather than abandon their convictions. I inherit the stubborn determination of pioneers who built communities in swamps and forests and deserts. I am shaped by teachers and mentors who believed in me when I did not believe in myself. I am marked by the love of a wife who chose me and has stood beside me for forty-five years. I am haunted—in the most beautiful way—by the memory of a son whose eighteen years taught me what matters most.

If there is a lesson that ties it all together, it is this: ordinary faithfulness is more powerful than we know. The quiet work of showing up, of serving, of building things that last, of choosing people over systems, of learning to receive as well as give—these things are not glamorous. They do not make headlines. But they change lives. They build communities. They endure.

I do not know what comes next. But I know Whose hands hold the future. And I know that grace is real, that redemption is always possible, and that the story is never finished as long as we are still becoming.

To anyone reading this: May you know that you are not alone in your struggle. May you learn earlier than I did that asking for help honors both the giver and the receiver. May you understand that your worth was settled long ago, not by your achievements but by the One who made you and calls you beloved. And may you discover, as I am finally learning, that the weight we carry becomes lighter when we learn to carry it together, and that grace is available for every step of the journey.

Still becoming. Still held. Still learning.

This is the life of John Edwin Hargrove.

When the end of me is reached

Lord,
I come to You without answers prepared and without strength to impress.
You already know where my thoughts ran ahead of my heart,
where I made decisions too quickly,
and where the weight settled before I understood why.

Slow me down enough to hear what is true.
Separate what is fear, fatigue, or habit
from what is wisdom, calling, and peace.
Where my mind rushes to conclusions,
teach my soul to wait.

When discouragement arrives suddenly,
remind me that feelings are not final verdicts.
Anchor me again in what You have already proven faithful.
If I am tired, grant rest.
If I am anxious, grant clarity.
If I am carrying more than You asked of me,
help me lay it down without guilt.

Give me discernment that is patient,
decisions that are held lightly,
and confidence that does not depend on urgency.
Let today be guided not by pressure,
but by trust.

I place this day, these thoughts, and these decisions in Your hands.
Lead me at Your pace,
and keep my heart steady in Your presence.

In Jesus Name Amen.

What I Do and Why

The Work

I’ve spent most of my career designing infrastructure systems—broadband networks, power grid communications, microwave backhaul, cybersecurity. Over four decades, I’ve worked for utilities, cooperatives, and municipalities. Honestly, it’s been more a series of opportunities that opened up than any grand master plan on my part.

During COVID—2020-2022—I worked 3,900+ hours of overtime helping launch a wireless internet service provider in rural Southeast Texas. We ended up covering about 20K households for a time. Families needed connectivity for school and work, and I had skills that could help. So I showed up. That part wasn’t heroic; it was just the next right thing.

Now I serve as COO at Evergreen Technology Solutions, still working on broadband expansion in overlooked rural areas. And I’m on a couple of boards—the library, economic development—trying to help my small hometown figure out how to grow without losing itself.

I also lead Bible studies and write about faith, grief, and what it means to show up when life feels scattered.

The Foundation

None of this makes sense without Leisa. We’ve been married forty-five years—high school sweethearts who somehow stayed in love through everything life threw at us. She’s been steady when I’ve been scattered, faithful when I’ve been foolish, present when I’ve been absent. She’s the actual backbone of everything I’ve managed to do. I mean that without exaggeration.

My parents shaped me too. My father, Robert, was a Korean War veteran who worked thirty-five years at DuPont. He didn’t talk much about work ethic or responsibility—he just lived it. Showed up, did the work with integrity, took care of his family. My mother, Lavee, brought creativity and faith into everything. They gave me roots in a small East Texas town and a sense that faithful work—unglamorous, steady, consistent—was how you lived out what you believed.

The Grief That Changed Everything

In 2002, our son Joshua died. He was eighteen. Bright, kind, sincere. He was our greatest joy and our deepest investment.

I don’t have words adequate to describe that loss. It still aches, twenty-plus years later. But grief, I’ve learned, is just love with nowhere to go. And that loss did something to us—to me, especially. It cracked me open. Made me less interested in advancement and more interested in presence. Less focused on my own achievement and more attuned to the pain of others.

After Joshua died, Leisa and I opened our home. We started leading Bible studies. We made our house a refuge for teenagers who were carrying their own wounds, searching for truth, needing to know that adults cared about them. That loss became the occasion for a different kind of work—the work of walking beside people in their pain.

It’s still the source of everything I do that matters.

Why I Do It

When you’ve buried a child, your priorities get sorted pretty quickly. What seemed important doesn’t anymore. What always mattered finally gets your full attention.

I’m hesitant to speak about purpose too boldly, but if I’m honest: I believe rural places and the people in them matter. They get overlooked. They deserve better. And I’ve been given some skills, some opportunities, and—most importantly—a wake-up call through grief that tells me this work is worth doing.

I don’t pretend the motivation is pure. Pride is mixed in there. Ambition too. But underneath it all is something simpler: when you see something broken and you have the tools to help fix it, when you’ve experienced loss deep enough to know what matters, and when you believe in God, you kind of have to try.

Small acts matter. One connection, one person, one conversation at a time. Leisa has taught me that by example. She’s been doing that kind of faithful, invisible work our entire marriage—showing up, staying present, loving people one at a time.

The Honest Part

The honest truth is I scatter myself across too many things. I take on too much. Leisa has had to remind me more times than I can count that I can’t do everything, that rest is not laziness, that presence at home matters more than one more project completed.

I’m still learning to say no. Still learning to ask for help. Still struggling with the burden-bearing that became my default way of operating. But the work—the broadband, the community service, the faith-building—it’s all pointing the same direction: toward people. Toward love made visible. Toward showing up for the overlooked, the grieving, the forgotten.

Leisa walks beside me in all of it. She’s the one who keeps me honest about what matters. She’s the one who’s loved me through seasons when I was too busy, too tired, or too stuck in my own head to deserve it.

Joshua’s memory is woven through it all too—a reminder that life is short, that presence is everything, that the work that lasts is the work done out of love, not ambition.

That’s what I try to do. Imperfectly. With a wife who’s far better at it than I am. And with the grace that meets us when we’re willing to be broken open by loss and built back up by faith.

Grief Is Just Love With Nowhere to Go

I didn’t come up with that phrase on my own. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite remember where. The first time I really understood it, though, was because I was living it.

Joshua died on a summer night in June 2002. He was eighteen years old. Smart, kind, sincere—the kind of young man who made you believe the world might actually be okay because people like him existed in it. Leisa and I had invested eighteen years into loving that boy, shaping him, praying for him, believing in who he was becoming.

And then he was gone.

For a long time after, I didn’t understand what to do with the love. That’s the part nobody tells you about grief. They tell you it gets easier with time, or that you learn to live with it, or that you find closure. But what they don’t say is that the love doesn’t go anywhere. It doesn’t diminish or fade or resolve itself into acceptance. It just stops having an obvious place to go.

I remember the first few weeks after Joshua died. The love was still there—urgent, real, physical almost. I wanted to do things for him, be present in his life, shepherd him forward. And I couldn’t. There was no object for all that love anymore. It had nowhere to attach itself.

That’s what grief is.

The Redirection

In August of that year, just a couple of months after we buried our son, Leisa and I made a decision. We reopened our home. We invited young people who wanted to honor Joshua and continue the Bible study he had been part of to come together. The loss was still raw—it’s still raw now, more than twenty years later. But we couldn’t sit with that love alone. It was too big. It needed to move.

So we created a space for it to move into. Teenagers came—kids who were grieving too, kids who wanted to remember Joshua, kids who were searching for truth and needed to know that adults cared about them. The love we couldn’t pour into Joshua anymore, we poured into them. Not as replacements—no one could replace Joshua. But as a direction for love that needed a direction.

Leisa was the visionary in this. I was still in the fog of it, still trying to figure out how to keep breathing. But she saw what needed to happen, and she stepped into it with a kind of grace I’m still learning from.

What It Means to Love the Dead

There’s a misconception that when you grieve well, the grief goes away. That’s not true. What happens instead is that the love finds new expression. The relationship doesn’t end—it transforms.

I still love Joshua. That love doesn’t leave just because he’s gone. It can’t. Love that deep doesn’t work that way. But I can’t call him, can’t teach him, can’t watch him grow. So the love has to take other shapes.

It takes the shape of opening our home to young people. It takes the shape of working 3,900 hours of overtime to connect rural families to broadband because I know—viscerally know—how precious connection is, how short life is, how much it matters to be present for the people in front of you while you have them.

When I sit with someone who’s grieving, I’m not sitting with them as a neutral party. I’m sitting with someone who loves someone they can’t reach anymore. And I know that place. I live in that place. I’ve made a home in it.

The Love Stays

Here’s what I’ve learned: grief doesn’t mean you stop loving. It means your love has to find new terrain. It means the person you love isn’t physically present anymore, but the love is still very much alive in you, looking for somewhere to land.

Some days I feel Joshua’s absence acutely—a birthday, a milestone, a moment when I think “he would have loved this.” Those days, the grief is sharp. The love has nowhere to go and it just sits in my chest like a stone.

But most days, I experience his love as directional. It moves through me toward other people. Toward Leisa, who has stood beside me through everything. Toward the young people who’ve walked through our home looking for sanctuary. Toward the rural communities that deserve dignity and connection. Toward the work that keeps me up at night because it matters, because lives depend on it, because someone’s son or daughter is on the other end of that broadband connection.

I’m not trying to say grief is good or that losing a child is anything other than devastating. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

But I’m trying to say this: the love you have for someone doesn’t disappear when they do. It just demands a new expression. And if you’re willing to let it, if you’re willing to redirect all that urgent, desperate love toward the living world in front of you, it can become something redemptive.

Not healed. Not resolved. But purposeful.

A Different Kind of Presence

Leisa and I haven’t moved on from Joshua’s death. We’ve moved forward with it. We carry him with us. His memory shapes decisions we make, values we prioritize, people we’re called to serve.

When I’m working on bringing broadband to rural families, Joshua is there—in the urgency I feel, in the refusal to give up when systems are complicated, in the belief that every person deserves connection. When I’m sitting with a teenager who’s hurting, Joshua is there—in the patience I have, in the willingness to listen, in the knowledge that their pain matters.

The love I have for my son hasn’t been redirected away from him. It’s been integrated into a larger love—a love for the world he would have inhabited, for the people he would have cared about, for the work that needs doing while we’re still here.

That’s what grief is: love with nowhere to go, until you make it go somewhere. Until you let it reshape your life, your priorities, your work. Until you understand that the people you’ve lost aren’t actually gone—they’re woven through everything you do, everyone you serve, every moment you choose presence over ambition.

I still miss him. Every single day. But I’m grateful, too—grateful that the love we had doesn’t end at death. Grateful that I get to express it here, now, toward the people and the work in front of me.

That’s how Joshua still shapes the world. Not in the ways we planned. Not in the ways he would have chosen. But in real, concrete ways—in lives touched, in communities connected, in young people loved because his parents learned that grief is just love refusing to die.

Using Spark Leadership to Avoid Dysfunction and Burnout

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

Leadership frameworks usually focus on how to inspire others. What they talk about far less is how leaders quietly burn out while doing it.

That risk is especially high for people who are competent, dependable, and willing to step in when things start to wobble. In small organizations, rural communities, nonprofits, utilities, and volunteer-driven environments, leadership often defaults to whoever will carry the load. Over time, that turns into chronic over-functioning.

Spark leadership, used intentionally, can be a way out of that trap — not by doing more, but by doing less of the wrong things.

Here is how I have come to think about it.

Spark is ignition, not sustained combustion

A spark is meant to start something, not keep it burning forever. If the same person is constantly supplying the heat, the system never develops its own energy. Burnout is not a personal failure; it is often a signal that the leader has become the permanent engine.

Using Spark leadership well means learning when to ignite and when to step back.

Share information as a boundary, not a burden

Transparency is often framed as kindness or trust-building. In practice, it is also a boundary-setting tool.

When I share information clearly — risks, constraints, tradeoffs, consequences — I am doing my part. What I no longer assume is responsibility for what others choose not to do with that information.

There is a difference between clarity and rescue.

Clarity says, “Here is what is happening.”

Rescue says, “And I will make sure it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

If discomfort follows clarity, that is not dysfunction. That is a system waking up.

Ask for input, then require ownership

Inviting input without requiring ownership creates a subtle form of burnout. Ideas get shared, refined, and improved — and then quietly added to one person’s workload.

A healthier Spark practice is to follow every request for input with a simple question:

Who is willing to own this?

Not who agrees with it. Not who likes it. Who will carry it.

Ideas without owners are not commitments. Letting them remain ideas protects both the leader and the organization.

Play to strengths without covering for gaps

Strength-based leadership is often misunderstood as smoothing everything out. In reality, it means aligning people where they are effective and allowing gaps to be visible elsewhere.

When leaders constantly compensate for missing skills, unclear roles, or weak follow-through, the system learns the wrong lesson: that someone else will always fix it.

Letting gaps stay visible creates pressure for growth, re-design, or honest conversation. Absorbing those gaps just delays the inevitable — at your expense.

Keep commitments, but stop making implied ones

Reliability builds trust. It also attracts dependency.

One of the most important burnout-prevention moves I’ve learned is to stop making implied commitments. If I did not explicitly say yes, it is not mine. If no one asked, I am not obligated. If ownership was unclear, I am not the default.

Keeping commitments does not mean keeping everyone else’s.

Let Spark develop others, not replace them

The healthiest use of Spark leadership is developmental, not compensatory. The question is not “How do I keep this from failing?” but “Who needs to grow so this doesn’t depend on me?”

That shift feels risky at first. Things may wobble. Some people may resist. A few may leave. But what emerges is a system that can breathe without one person holding it together.

Burnout thrives in silence and substitution. Spark leadership, used well, replaces both with clarity and shared responsibility.

And in the long run, that is not just better leadership — it is more sustainable life.

2025

As the year closes, I am not counting accomplishments or failures. I am paying attention to what remained. What endured when plans changed, when strength ran thin, when answers did not arrive on time.

This year asked more than I expected. It required steadiness when clarity was limited and faithfulness when results were slow. I learned again that life rarely moves by clean chapters. Most days are written in pencil, not ink, and grace shows up quietly rather than dramatically.

On this New Year’s Eve, I am reminded that Jesus did not promise ease, but presence. He did not offer certainty, but direction. He did not remove the valley, but He walked into it with us. That has been enough. It is still enough.

As midnight approaches, I release what I cannot carry forward. Regret. Fear. The need to control outcomes. I step into the coming year with trust instead of urgency, obedience instead of noise, and hope rooted deeper than circumstances.

Tomorrow will not be a reset. It will be a continuation. Another day to show up, to serve, to love well, and to walk faithfully with the One who holds time itself.

I enter the new year not demanding answers, but willing to listen.

—John Hargrove

#NewYearsEve

#FaithfulPresence

#WalkingWithJesus

#Endurance

#QuietHope

#Stewardship

One Faithful Step: Filling the Jars with Water

An application from John 2:1–25

There is a quiet detail in the opening chapters of the Gospel of John that has stayed with me.

At the wedding in Cana, nothing dramatic is asked of the servants. Jesus does not tell them to pray harder, believe louder, or understand more deeply. He gives a simple instruction:

“Fill the jars with water.”

That is it.

The miracle does not begin with wine. It begins with obedience that looks ordinary.

Naming What Has Run Out

Mary does something equally simple before that moment. She names the shortage:

“They have no more wine.”

She does not fix it.

She does not explain it.

She does not manage the outcome.

She places the lack before Jesus and steps back.

That pattern matters.

My Concrete Step

Here is the one step I am choosing to take in response to this passage:

I will name what has run out in me and place it before Jesus without trying to solve it.

Practically, this looks like this:

I sit alone, quietly, with no agenda.

I write one sentence:

“Lord, I have no more ______.”

I do not explain the blank.

I do not justify it.

I do not turn it into a prayer list or a plan.

Then I stop.

I pray one short sentence:

“I place this in Your hands. I will do whatever You tell me next.”

And I leave it there.

No fixing.

No rushing.

No forcing clarity.

Why This Matters

This step resists my instinct to manage outcomes, optimize solutions, or turn faith into a project. It places me where the servants stood—faithful, available, and unremarkable.

The servants did not make wine.

They carried water.

The transformation was Jesus’ work, not theirs.

What I Am Watching For

I am not watching for a dramatic answer.

I am watching for a quiet instruction.

Something small.

Something ordinary.

Something that feels almost too simple to matter.

That will likely be my “fill the jars with water” moment.

A Closing Reflection

I am not responsible for producing abundance.

I am responsible for obedience.

When I do what I am told—without knowing the outcome—I make room for God to reveal His glory in ways I could not manufacture.

For now, filling the jars is enough.

Endurance

Today I was thinking about how my life mirrors the theme of That’s Why They Call It the Blues by Elton John.

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.

Prologue: February 28, 2026

Part One: The Signal Before the Interference

The Dream

What the Teenage John Said

Part Two: The Letter I Could Not Send

Dear Joshua

What I Believe You Would Say Back

Part Three: What I Need to Remember

February 28, 2026 — Written in the afternoon

A Note on What This Book Is

Dedication

Table of Contents

Foreword

PART ONE: ROOTS AND INHERITANCE

The Forty-Third Generation: An Epic of Inheritance

From Merfyn the Freckled to Modern Day

The Web of Names: A Brief Ancestral Framework

PART TWO: FORMATION YEARS (1958–1976)

Chapter 1: Roots in Buna — Family, Faith, and the Land

The Grandparents’ Influence

School Days in Buna

Chapter 2: Troop 44 — The Shaping Years

The Service Project

Friends and Foundations

PART THREE: BUILDING YEARS (1976–2002)

Chapter 3: College, Marriage, and the Engineering Path

Chapter 4: Professional Life and Community Roots

PART FOUR: THE TURNING POINT (2000–2005)

Chapter 5: Spiritual Awakening and the Loss of Joshua

Chapter 6: Treasured Memories from 2001

November 30, 2001: Behind Enemy Lines

December 1, 2001: Spy Game

PART FIVE: MATURE SERVICE (2006–2025)

Chapter 7: Influencers in Life — The People Who Shaped Us

Chapter 8: A Life of Quiet Leadership

Chapter 9: Reflections at Sixty-Seven

PART SIX: ONGOING JOURNEY

A Prayer Journey: Seven Movements Toward Wholeness

Movement One: The Weight You Were Never Meant to Carry Alone

Movement Two: The Sabbath You Have Forgotten

Movement Three: The Grief That Has Not Been Given Its Due

Movement Four: The Perfection That Imprisons

Movement Five: The Help You Cannot Ask For

Movement Six: The Silence That Swallows

Movement Seven: The Compassion That Has Run Dry

A Benediction for the Journey

Appendices

Appendix A: Timeline of John Edwin Hargrove (1958–2025)

Appendix B: Essential Facts About John Edwin Hargrove

Appendix C: A Final Reflection

The Work

The Foundation

The Grief That Changed Everything

Why I Do It

The Honest Part

Grief Is Just Love With Nowhere to Go

The Redirection

What It Means to Love the Dead

The Love Stays

A Different Kind of Presence