Keeping Going When No One’s Listening?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to do work that matters when it feels like no one cares.

For the past few years, I’ve been advocating for rural East Texas communities—places like Buna, Newton, San Augustine. I’ve built communication frameworks, written strategic plans, installed digital kiosks, organized meetings, drafted policy briefs. I’ve tried to give voice to communities that have been systematically left out of planning conversations, to help people shape their own futures instead of having decisions made for them from far away.

Most days, it feels like pushing a boulder uphill alone.

The Generational Game

I’m starting to realize this work isn’t measured in months or even years—it’s generational. The infrastructure I’m building, these communication frameworks and pilot models and community briefs, they’re seeds that may not fully mature in my lifetime. And I think I’ve been measuring success wrong.

Maybe success isn’t getting county commissioners to read every brief I send. Maybe it’s that one local leader who picks up this work five years from now and has a template to start from. Maybe it’s just that these documents exist at all—proof that someone saw what was happening, cared enough to name it, and offered solutions.

That’s not failure. That’s foundation-building.

Celebrating What’s Actually There

When the big wins feel impossible, I’m learning to notice the small ones:

A county commissioner who actually responded to a community brief
A kiosk that’s been running for six months without breaking down
One new business owner who showed up to learn about the community
The fact that I’ve created templates other rural organizers can use

These aren’t nothing. They’re evidence of progress, even if they’re not transformation yet.

Finding My People

The San Augustine meeting this year reminded me of something important. Sitting around that table with Eddie, Nancy, Tania, and Marianne—people doing similar work in their own communities—I didn’t feel alone. We shared frustrations, traded contacts, problem-solved together.

I’ve been spending too much energy seeking alignment “up”—with county officials, state agencies, foundations—and not enough building lateral relationships with peers. Those relationships aren’t just strategic. They’re sanity-preserving. They remind me I’m not crazy for thinking this work matters.

The Documentation Matters

Even when nothing changes immediately, these reports I’m writing serve a purpose:

They validate what communities are experiencing
They create a record for future organizers
They protect against institutional amnesia (“we didn’t know there was a problem”)

I need to remember that documentation is activism. Recording what’s happening, naming the gaps, proposing solutions—that’s meaningful work even when it doesn’t produce immediate results.

Letting Go of Universal Buy-In

Not everyone is going to get it. Some officials will remain indifferent. Some developers will keep ignoring community input. Some residents will stay skeptical of any change.

That’s okay. The goal isn’t to convince everyone—it’s to build enough of a coalition to create momentum. I don’t need universal support for this work to matter.

Taking Real Breaks

I’m bad at this one. I need to take actual breaks—not performative self-care, but real disengagement. Days where I don’t mention rural development. Weeks where the kiosks can wait.

This work will always be there. It’s generational, remember? Burning out doesn’t serve anyone.

What Does “Enough” Look Like?

I’m trying to get more specific about what meaningful progress would look like in the next year. Not transformation—just progress:

Three communities actually using the communication framework I built
One successful regional roundtable where rural leaders are at the table
Maybe a single rural navigator position gets funded somewhere

When I make it concrete like that, I can tell the difference between “not enough impact yet” and “actually making progress.” They’re not the same thing.

Why I Keep Going

Buna, Newton, San Augustine—these aren’t abstractions to me. They’re people who deserve to shape their own futures. The work I’m doing affirms their dignity and their right to be heard.

That has value independent of whether it produces immediate systemic change.

The fact that I keep showing up, keep documenting, keep building frameworks when no one asked me to—I don’t think that’s naivete anymore. I think it’s moral courage. Or stubbornness. Maybe both.

The question isn’t whether to keep going. It’s how to keep going sustainably, strategically, with enough support to avoid burning out completely.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But writing this helps. Naming what’s hard helps. Remembering I’m building foundations, not finished structures—that helps too.

If you’re doing similar work somewhere else—advocating for a place everyone else overlooks, building infrastructure no one asked for, showing up when it feels pointless—you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy.

Keep going. The work matters.

Several strands of biblical wisdom for those haunted by regret and recurring temptation

1. Remember that God’s mercy is greater than memory.

Romans 8:1 says, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

Condemnation is not the same as conviction. Conviction calls you back to grace; condemnation chains you to the past. The devil traffics in old evidence. God calls you into a new verdict.

Wisdom means learning to answer the darkness with truth:

“My failures are real, but they have already been nailed to the cross (Colossians 2:14). I am no longer defined by what I did, but by who Christ is.”

2. Understand that temptation does not erase redemption.

Temptation is not proof of failure; it is proof of humanity. Even Jesus was tempted in every way but without sin (Hebrews 4:15). The presence of temptation doesn’t mean the absence of grace. It means the battle is still being fought—and that God’s Spirit is still active within you.Wisdom says: don’t confuse the struggle with defeat. The very fight is evidence that the Spirit has not abandoned you.

3. Bring the past into the light, not the shadows.

Psalm 32 describes the heaviness of hidden guilt: “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away.” But it also shows freedom in confession: “Then I acknowledged my sin to You… and You forgave the guilt of my sin.”

Wisdom doesn’t deny the past; it hands it over to God’s mercy. When regret surfaces, speak it aloud in prayer, confession, or trusted fellowship. Darkness loses power when it’s named under grace.

4. Anchor your identity in adoption, not performance.

Romans 8:15–16 says you have received “the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’”

The wisdom here is to shift from shame’s language—I am what I’ve done—to sonship’s language—I am who God says I am.

Adopted children stumble but are never disowned. Your Father doesn’t love a future, perfected version of you; He loves you now, growing and learning.

5. Recognize the pattern and replace it with presence.

Temptation often follows predictable paths—stress, loneliness, fatigue, boredom. Wisdom notices these rhythms and meets them with presence: Scripture, prayer, worship, conversation, rest.

When the old pattern begins, stop and invite the Spirit into that exact moment: “Lord, this is where I usually fall. Meet me here.” That prayer alone breaks the isolation where temptation thrives.

6. See sanctification as a process, not a single victory.

Paul himself wrote, “The good that I want to do, I do not do” (Romans 7:19). Holiness grows slowly, like fruit, not instantly like a download.

Wisdom accepts progress over perfection. Each act of resistance, each confession, each small obedience is a testimony of grace at work. God is more patient with your growth than you are.

7. Look forward rather than backward.

Philippians 3:13–14: “Forgetting what lies behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”

Paul knew guilt—he had persecuted the church—but he also knew grace. Forgetting here doesn’t mean erasing memory; it means refusing to let the past direct the future.

Wisdom learns to look through regret, not at it, seeing it as the backdrop for God’s mercy.

8. Let hope be the final word.

Romans 8 ends with a chorus of unbreakable hope:

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come… will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

If nothing in heaven or earth can separate you from that love, then neither can your past nor your recurring weakness.

Hope is not denial; it’s defiance. It says to darkness: You may visit, but you do not own this room anymore.

9. Practice the disciplines of renewal.

The path out of regret and recurring sin is steady, practical, and sacred.

Begin each day with Romans 8:1 as a declaration. Read a psalm aloud when temptation whispers. Keep short accounts with God—repent quickly, return quickly. Surround yourself with voices of faith, not shame. End each night thanking God for His patience rather than despairing over imperfection.

Summary of Wisdom

Those who are haunted by regret and temptation are not disqualified—they are exactly the people God delights to heal. The wisdom of Romans 8 is that life in the Spirit means freedom from condemnation, fellowship in struggle, and assurance in love.

You are not what you were. You are not what you fear. You are a beloved child of God, walking—sometimes stumbling—but always held by a grace that will not let you go.

The Pain We Carry

– Lament with Jeremiah & the Psalmist

There’s a weight we don’t often talk about in church life—the grief that lingers in the soul when things don’t work out the way we prayed they would. Jeremiah knew that weight. He wrote, “Oh, that my head were a spring of water and my eyes a fountain of tears! I would weep day and night for the slain of my people” (Jeremiah 9:1). The psalmist prayed something similar: “Help us, O God of our salvation, for the glory of your name; deliver us, and forgive our sins, for your name’s sake” (Psalm 79:9).

Both voices remind us that lament is not just personal sadness—it’s a holy act of naming the pain before God.

Lament in Scripture, Lament in Life

When I read Jeremiah’s words, I hear echoes of seasons in my own journey. There have been moments where I’ve had to sit across from friends, colleagues, or family members, knowing that words couldn’t fix the brokenness we were facing. Times when projects I poured years into were stalled by forces beyond my control. Times when communities I love were fractured, and I felt powerless to heal the divides.

I’ve often carried those burdens quietly, as an engineer, a leader, a brother, a son. Like many men, I was taught to just keep going, solve the next problem, make the next call. But Scripture teaches that silence isn’t the only response—lament is.

What Lament Looks Like

Lament is not despair. It’s not quitting. It’s a turning of the heart toward God when life feels too heavy to carry. It’s saying out loud what we’d rather keep inside:

This hurts. I don’t understand. God, why does it seem like you’re far away?

Lament opens a door to hope because it refuses to let pain have the last word.

Carrying Pain in a World of Injustice

The prophet Amos points out that part of our pain comes from living in a world where injustice is real. He names those who trample the needy and cheat the poor. I’ve seen versions of that play out in Southeast Texas—families weighed down by the unfair cost of living, workers underpaid while corporations thrive, small towns overlooked when resources are allocated.

My own work in rural broadband has been shaped by that reality. It grieves me that whole communities are still left behind in an age where connection determines opportunity. That’s not just a technical problem—it’s a justice issue. And lament, at its heart, is agreeing with God that this isn’t how things should be.

Learning to Pray the Pain

Paul urges us in 1 Timothy to pray “for all people—for kings and all who are in high positions.” That’s not easy when leaders disappoint us, but it’s part of carrying pain rightly. Prayer puts lament into motion, turning grief into intercession.

I’ve had to learn this the hard way. In seasons where leadership at church or in business felt uncertain, I wanted to either fix everything or walk away. Instead, God has gently reminded me to pray—not just for outcomes, but for people. Prayer doesn’t erase pain, but it transforms how we carry it.

Choosing the Treasure That Lasts

Jesus’ parable of the dishonest manager ends with this line: “You cannot serve God and wealth.” For me, that lands like a compass point. All the work, all the projects, all the energy—none of it can become the ultimate treasure. Pain has a way of reminding us what really matters.

When I’ve lost deals, faced setbacks, or been misunderstood, the Spirit has pressed me back to what lasts: relationships, faith, hope, and love. Those are eternal treasures.

Walking Forward with Honest Hearts

So what do we do with the pain we carry? We learn to lament. We give voice to Jeremiah’s tears and the psalmist’s cries. We name injustice, we pray for people in power, and we re-orient our hearts to the treasure of God’s kingdom.

If you’re carrying something heavy today, don’t bury it. Pray it. Cry it. Write it. Let lament be your way of standing before God honestly. Because in the end, lament is not just about pain—it’s about trust. Trust that God hears. Trust that God heals. Trust that His kingdom will come, even in Southeast Texas, even in my life and yours.

Living the New Life by Compass in a Fractured WorldSermon – September 14, 2025

Sermon – September 14, 2025

Title: Living the New Life by Compass in a Fractured World
Texts: Ephesians 4:22–24; 2 Corinthians 5:17–20; John 15:5; Colossians 3:17

Opening Prayer

Lord Jesus,
Thank You for offering us a new name amid this week’s heartaches—Kirk’s loss, Evergreen’s terror, Memphis’ violence, and Vidor’s wounds. As we gather, be our compass in this fractured world. Strip away our old selves—our fears, our furies—and clothe us with the new. Align us with Your Vine so that we may bear fruit in places that feel barren. Amen.

Introduction – A Fractured World Needs a Compass

My heart is heavy. This week has fractured us again:

Charlie Kirk assassinated in Utah.
Evergreen High School torn by gunfire.
Memphis, Minneapolis, and Fort Wayne wracked by shootings.
And closer to home, Vidor shaken by a woman shot in her apartment, a police chase, and a car hijacking with a family inside.

These are more than headlines. They are mirrors. They expose the anger, fear, and indifference inside us. And they leave us in a liminal space — in between grief and hope.

In those spaces, we need more than maps of opinion, ideology, or rage. We need a compass. Not a device in our pocket — but Christ Himself, our true North.

1. The Quiet Question: Where Am I Going?

Ephesians 4:22–24 calls us to shed the old self and put on the new.

The old self is what fuels violence — vengeance in Utah, despair in Colorado, cycles of revenge in Memphis, desperation in Vidor. But the old self lives in me too. I’ve worn names like “failure” and “not enough,” especially after Joshua’s death.

A compass question cuts through the noise: Who am I becoming?

Youth Call-out (12–18): You hear names and labels every day — “popular,” “awkward,” “try-hard.” But your real compass isn’t popularity or reputation. It’s who Christ is shaping you to become.

2. A New Name, A New Compass

Revelation 2:17 promises: “To the one who overcomes I will give… a white stone with a new name written on it.”

God doesn’t just hand us directions — He renames us. Abram became Abraham. Jacob became Israel. Simon became Peter. I once thought “unworthy” was my name. But Christ renamed me.

A compass doesn’t just point you somewhere. It tells you who you are becoming.

Reflection: What old names still cling to you? How does Christ rename you?

3. The Call to Shed the Old Self

Paul says the old self must go. But that’s not one big decision — it’s a daily compass check.

Ask yourself:

Who am I becoming?
What pain am I avoiding that God wants to redeem?
What can I serve without applause?

This week I felt anger over Kirk’s death, fear for classrooms turned battlegrounds, judgment toward Vidor’s suspects. But renewal starts by taking those thoughts captive, by surrendering them daily.

Romans 5:3–5 reminds us: suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope. That’s compass work.

4. Ambassadors with Authority

2 Corinthians 5:20 says: “We are Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making His appeal through us.”

Ambassadors don’t speak their own agenda. They represent their King. After Kirk’s assassination, we don’t answer with vengeance but reconciliation. After Evergreen, we don’t harden, we heal. In Memphis and Vidor, we stand with victims, break cycles of despair, and show mercy.

Authority without compass becomes arrogance. Authority with compass becomes mission.

Youth Call-out (12–18): Think about being the “rep” for your school at a competition. You don’t just speak for yourself — you represent everyone. That’s what being Christ’s ambassador means. People see Jesus in how you live.

5. Abiding: The Anchor in the In-Between

John 15:5 says: “I am the vine; you are the branches… apart from Me you can do nothing.”

Authority without abiding turns to arrogance. Abiding aligns our compass to true North. It’s what turns wounds into wisdom, chaos into fruit. For me, abiding has meant praying over Joshua’s memory, letting grief refine me instead of define me.

Practice: Take five minutes daily. Breathe in God’s grace, exhale fear or vengeance, and listen. Abiding is the only way to stay aligned.

Youth Call-out (12–18): You can’t run your phone on one charge all week. Same with your soul. Stay plugged into Jesus daily — prayer, Scripture, worship — and you’ll bear fruit that lasts.

Application – Living the Compass Life

So, what does this mean for us tomorrow?

Shed the Old Self – Identify one “old name” (anger, fear, indifference) and surrender it.
Live as an Ambassador – Ask: Am I reflecting Christ in my community? Take one step this week: pray, serve, reconcile.
Abide Daily – Pause five minutes a day. Let Christ be your compass.

Living by clocks and calendars keeps us busy. Living by compass keeps us aligned.

Conclusion

This fractured world leaves us asking: Where am I going? Who am I becoming?

The Gospel answers:

You are renamed.
You are renewed.
You are sent as an ambassador.
You are rooted by abiding.

“If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Corinthians 5:17)

In the liminal space of 2025, let Christ be your compass.

Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus,
Thank You for renaming us, renewing us, and sending us. Help us to shed the old, live as Your ambassadors, and stay rooted in the Vine. In this fractured world, keep us walking by Your compass, not our culture’s maps. May we bear fruit that heals and hope that lasts.
Amen.

What I’ve Learned so Far About Life

Life ain’t a straight line. It’s not fair, it’s not simple, and it sure doesn’t wait on you to get your act together.

I’ve learned life will knock you flat more times than you think is reasonable, and just when you think you’re done, it hands you something beautiful.

People come and go. Some stay. Some wreck you. Some save you without ever knowing it. And sometimes, it’s the same person doing all three.

What matters is showing up—being real, and not pretending you’ve got it figured out.

About God

God’s not the preacher in the pulpit telling you to try harder.

God’s been in the silence. In the tears. In the porch swing moments. In the second chances.

I used to think God just wanted me to serve and obey. Now I know He wants me whole, free, and home.

I’ve learned God doesn’t waste anything—not even the pain, not even the years I thought were lost.

About Me

I’m not bulletproof, but I’ve taken a lot of hits and I’m still standing.

I’ve carried too much for too long. I’ve hid behind work and projects because it was easier than feeling what was real.

But I’ve also learned I’ve got more heart than I gave myself credit for. I’ve learned I can sit in the hard stuff. I can love people who are hard to love. I can still believe in better days.

About Grief

Grief is a ghost with a key to the front door.

You can’t outrun it, and you can’t outwork it. It waits. It teaches.

I buried my grief so deep I didn’t even realize it was shaping me.

But now I see—grief isn’t weakness. It’s proof that I loved someone more than life itself.

And now, I carry that love forward. Not as a wound—but as a fire.

About Living

Living isn’t just getting through the day.

It’s paying attention. It’s listening to the quiet voice that says, “Don’t miss this.”

It’s letting someone in, even when you’re scared they’ll leave.

Living is remembering that I still have breath—and that means I still have purpose.

About Hope

Hope isn’t loud. It doesn’t kick the door down.

It whispers. It sits with you. It says, “Try again.”

I’ve had every reason to quit—and yet, I don’t.

That’s hope. That’s grace.

I’ve learned hope comes in strange forms—a text, a glance, a moment when the world slows down and something just feels right.

Hope is still choosing to build. Still choosing to believe.

And if I’m honest, sometimes the person who changed me didn’t preach, didn’t fix, didn’t even try.

Just listened. Just stayed. Just saw me.

And something in me started to shift.

Maybe that’s what God does, too. Just shows up—and stays.

And for the first time in a long time…

That’s enough.

I’ve been asking myself lately why I’ve done all of this.

I’ve been asking myself lately why I’ve done all of this.
Why, in 1989, I sat in the yard with a notebook computer, working while my son played nearby — but not really paying attention to him. Why I’ve poured 65 to 80 hours a week into work, every week, from college right up to now at age 67 — through Evergreen, ministry, and community service.

I can see the pattern stretching back decades.
In college, I juggled studying and part-time jobs because I thought that’s what it took to make something of myself. In 1993, I turned down a safe regional manager’s job because I wanted the freedom to build my own thing. I consulted for 26 years, worked in co-ops for 5, then left under a cloud. I started consulting again, built a WISP to $55K a month and 730 customers in two years, only to be dismissed by the majority owner for lack of fealty. Ninety days later, I started Evergreen — and I’ve been slogging ever since.

Somewhere along the way, I built my life around the belief that it was my job to build, to fix, to carry. That I should never settle for “good enough.” That if something needed to be done, I should be the one to do it — even if it meant giving up comfort, time, or relationships.

I’ve lost everything more than once, in cycles of 8 to 10 years. I’ve rebuilt more than once. And in between, I’ve driven myself with an intensity most people don’t understand — and maybe I don’t fully understand either.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve been chasing significance more than success. Trying to prove that what I build matters. That I matter. That I’m the kind of man who doesn’t walk away when things get hard, no matter how long it takes.

But lately I find myself wondering…
Can grace win over the cynicism I’ve picked up along the way?
Can purpose rise again from all the pain and loss?
Can light reframe what I’ve lost — and maybe even redeem it?

I don’t have those answers yet. But I know I’m still here, still building, still hoping. And maybe that’s where the next chapter starts.

Eighteen with 49 Years of Experience: Its been a Wild Ride

John Hargrove January 2025

Eighteen with 49 Years of Experience: Its been a Wild Ride

I have never felt completely sure of myself. But that never stopped me from trying things anyway. Life has been a mix of near-disasters, small victories, and the occasional moment of brilliance—sometimes all in the same day..

Looking back, I’ve built things, broken things (intentionally and otherwise), raised a family, started companies, rejoined companies, and somehow managed to survive a quarter horse with a mean streak. I’ve designed nuclear security systems, climbed radio towers, and watched Star Trek recover from its worst movie (looking at you, 1979). Through it all, I’ve realized that work was never just work—it was always fun. And somehow, I’m still here, still learning, still trying.

Along the way, I’ve designed electrical control systems for substations and regional grids, implemented one of the first utility fiber control systems (1982), and developed leading-edge cybersecurity systems for power plants and grid transmission.

All that said, I still feel like an 18-year-old with 49 years of experience.

The Best Times of My Life

(In Chronological Order, Because That’s How Time Works)

The Early Years: Learning, Surviving, Horses That Bite, and Learning Things the Hard Way

Age 11

Age 12 – Survived the mile swim. Earned a merit badge for not drowning.

• Age 13 – Earned Eagle Scout rank, proving I could navigate the woods, tie knots, and not set the camp on fire.

• Age 14 – Discovered Newton’s Laws the hard way by losing control of my quarter horse while riding bareback. As I rotated around to her neck, she decided to bite me while at full gallop—which seems like an unfair move in hindsight.

• Learned drafting from my grandfather, setting the stage for a lifelong appreciation of good engineering (and good erasers).

• Spent summers on the Neches River at my dad’s camp, developing a deep love for nature and mosquito repellant.

Graduated Buna ISD

The Family Years: Running From Kids, Finding Purpose, and Speaking in Public

• Pretended to run from my 3-year-old son, because making toddlers think they are faster than you is part of the Dad Code.

• Thirty-nine years later, repeated this with my grand-nephews and niece (ages 4 and up). Kids never get tired. I do.

• Got my BSEE from Lamar University (1981)—a degree that would later justify many of my wildest projects.

• Became a telecommunications engineer because my boss discovered I knew Morse code.

• Married Leisa, a moment of sheer brilliance on my part.

We had a Son – Joshua Blake Hargrove – a gift from God. 1984-2002

• Age 42 – Had the life-changing realization that Jesus loves me, this I know. That moment when you TRULY know it, and realize you were ignorant before. This alone saved me from what was to come in less than two years.

• 1994 – My wife twisted my arm into attending Toastmasters to learn public speaking. I physically got sick before my first talk. Turns out, you don’t actually die from it.

The Career Years: Work Was Never Just Work

• Started an internet company—because apparently, I like a challenge. During a pandemic…

• 1993-1995 Redesigned and oversaw a replacement and rebuild of a transcontinental microwave system from Houston to NYC, proving that yes, sometimes the right people DO get put in charge.

• 2010-2019 Designed cybersecurity systems for power plants and the grid—because keeping the lights on is kind of important.

• Put in one of the first utility fiber control systems in 1982, back when fiber optics were considered risky and cutting-edge.

• 2002 onward – Led Bible studies, where I saw the Word come alive in me and others.

The “Geezer Paradox” Years: Dancing, Trek, and Perspective

• Age 64 – Learned that I can dance like no one is watching and, more importantly, not care if anyone is. Look up the “Geezer Paradox”—it’s real.

• The Worst Times of My Life (Because Life Isn’t Always Fun and Star Trek)

• 2002 – The death of our son, Joshua. Until then, I did not know pain. Afterward, grief became a constant companion—one that never leaves, but you learn to live with.

• 1983 – The passing of my maternal grandfather at age 26. The first close relative I lost. I didn’t know how to process it.

• 2013 – The passing of my father at 85. He had a full life, but I wasn’t ready to let him go.

Final Thoughts: What I’ve Learned

No one ever feels truly complete. I’ve done a lot—some impressive, some just weird—but in the end, I’m just a guy who tried his best and constantly fell short in his own eyes. I’ve been a legal adult since 1976, but some days I still feel like a kid. Some days I act like one.

Sometimes I’m proud of what I do, sometimes I’m not.

But whether good or not-so-good, I rinse and repeat. Adjust. Keep going.

Looking back, I’ve been privileged to lead in both professional and personal areas. And yet, I still feel like I have so much left to do.

Family is huge, they made me who I am.

Each day, I try to be better and not be a burden to others.

I think I may finally be succeeding at life.

Final Words of Wisdom:

Have a great life. If I can, you can too.

Joshua painted this for me in 1999 The signature says from Paco to Dad.

My Maternal Grandfather when he was in his 20’s

Joshua Blake Hargrove