My Epitath

Here lies John E. Hargrove January 24, 1958 – [date yet to be written]

A boy from Buna who never stopped wondering how things worked and never stopped trying to make them work for others.

He chased signals across microwave towers and fiber miles, built networks that carried light to forgotten places, and in the darkest valleys carried the light of Christ to broken hearts.

Husband to Leisa for a lifetime and beyond, father to Joshua—whose brief life taught him how to love forever, son of Robert and Lavee, brother, friend, mentor, builder.

He knew grief intimately, yet chose every morning to show up, to do the quiet work that lasts when applause has long faded.

He was not perfect. He was faithful.

Still learning. Still building. Still becoming. Now, at last, fully known and fully home.

“Have a great life. If I can, I can too.” (He did.)

Soli Deo Gloria

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.

Let My Love Open the Door

(inspired by Pete Townshend’s song and the words of Jesus in Matthew 22:37–40)

When Pete Townshend sang, “Let my love open the door to your heart,” he probably wasn’t trying to preach a sermon—but he touched on something deeply spiritual. Love is the master key. Jesus said it even more plainly:

“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’

This is the first and greatest commandment.

And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’

All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”

—Matthew 22:37–40

Everything—every rule, every teaching, every act of faith—hinges on love. When Jesus boiled down the whole of Scripture into two laws, He was saying that religion isn’t about gates and guards; it’s about open doors.

When we love God fully, our hearts unlock to His presence. When we love others sincerely, their hearts begin to open too. The power that heals, restores, and reconciles begins to flow freely—because love always finds a way through.

So maybe today the invitation is simple:

Let His love open the door.

Let it unlock your fears, your grudges, your guarded places.

Let it swing wide the door of compassion for your neighbor, the one who’s hard to love, the one who doesn’t love you back.

The song says, “When people keep repeating that you’ll never fall in love… let my love open the door.”

Jesus says the same, only deeper. His love isn’t just romantic—it’s redemptive. It doesn’t just make life better; it makes life new.

#LoveGod #LovePeople #LetHisLoveOpenTheDoor #FaithInAction #HopeLivesHere #JesusChangesEverything

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