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

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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.

Showing Up When the Work Is Quiet

There is a particular kind of weight that comes with leadership in a small rural community. It is not loud or dramatic. It does not announce itself. It settles in quietly and stays. You carry it when you unlock buildings early in the morning, when you answer questions no one else has time to answer, when you make decisions knowing there is no backup team waiting behind you. This year has been full of that kind of weight.

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In rural East Texas, leadership is less about titles and more about presence. People know where you live. They know your family. They see whether you show up consistently or disappear when things get hard. Stewardship here is personal. You are not managing abstractions; you are caring for places and people with names, histories, and long memories. That responsibility can be humbling, and it can be heavy, especially when the year brings grief alongside progress.

As an engineer, I spend much of my time working with systems, infrastructure, and technology. Fiber routes, wireless links, power systems, networks that must stay up even when conditions are less than ideal. This year reinforced something I already knew but needed to relearn: technology is never the purpose. It is a tool. It exists to serve people, not to replace presence, wisdom, or care. Infrastructure matters deeply, but only because of what it enables—connection, opportunity, safety, and dignity. When the work becomes only about equipment or metrics, something essential is lost.

There were many days this year when exhaustion and calling pulled in opposite directions. Fatigue does not always come from doing too much; sometimes it comes from caring deeply over a long period of time. There were moments when it would have been easier to step back, to delay decisions, to wait for someone else to take responsibility. But calling is persistent. It does not shout. It simply asks, again and again, whether you will show up today.

Patience has been one of the quiet lessons of this year. Progress in rural places is slow by nature, and that slowness can feel frustrating in a world accustomed to rapid change. Trust grows the same way. It is built through small, repeated acts of reliability. Showing up on time. Following through. Listening more than speaking. These habits rarely make headlines, but they form the foundation of healthy communities.

Faith has been less about answers and more about posture. There were seasons of waiting when clarity did not come quickly. In those moments, faith looked like staying present, doing the next right thing, and trusting that light does not always arrive all at once. Often it comes like morning—gradually, almost unnoticed at first, until suddenly you realize you can see farther than you could before.

Grief has been part of the landscape this year as well. Loss changes how time feels. It reshapes priorities. It has a way of stripping away what is unnecessary and leaving what truly matters. In that sense, grief has also clarified calling. It has reminded me that people are not projects, and that leadership is ultimately an act of care.

As 2026 approaches, there is plenty that could invite fear: uncertainty, resource constraints, the complexity of rural challenges. But fear is not a useful guide. Hope, grounded in faith, is steadier. It does not deny difficulty; it simply refuses to let difficulty have the final word. Looking forward, the goal is not perfection or speed, but faithfulness—continuing to build, serve, and lead with integrity, even when the work remains unfinished.

So the choice at the end of this year is a simple one. To keep walking forward. To trust that God is at work in the quiet, steady moments more than in the loud ones. To believe that showing up, again and again, is itself an act of faith. And to rest in the confidence that light, even when it comes slowly, is still light.

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#FaithAndWork #RuralLeadership #Stewardship #QuietFaith #HopeForward #EastTexas

The Long Road Between Pain and Peace

Life moves like that song from Bosch—slow, deliberate, a little haunted, and honest enough not to pretend things are fine when they aren’t.

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You wake up carrying yesterday with you. Some memories refuse to loosen their grip. Loss. Regret. Questions that never quite resolve. You learn early that life does not hand out clean endings, only long roads and unfinished conversations. Still, you get up. Not because it’s easy, but because something inside you says you must.

You do your work quietly. You try to do it right. You learn that integrity costs more than compromise, but you pay it anyway. You discover that justice, truth, and love are rarely loud. Most of the time, they show up as persistence—showing up again when walking away would be simpler.

There are nights when the weight presses down hard. You replay moments you wish you could change. You hear echoes of people you loved and lost. You wonder whether holding on is strength or stubbornness. And yet, letting go feels like erasing part of who you are.

So you keep walking. Not because you have all the answers, but because you believe life has meaning even when it’s cracked. Somewhere along the way, you realize you are not carrying everything alone. There is a quiet presence beside you—steady, patient, faithful—bearing the heavier part of the load. The kind of presence that doesn’t rush you, doesn’t condemn you, and doesn’t leave when things get dark.

You learn that redemption is not sudden. It’s slow. It’s daily. It’s choosing truth over comfort, mercy over bitterness, and hope over despair. It’s discovering that love can meet you in broken places and still call you forward.

In the end, life is not about forgetting what shaped you. It’s about letting it refine you. You don’t let go of what matters. You carry it—transformed—into something truer.

And you keep going.

#LifeStory
#StillStanding
#RedemptionRoad
#FaithInTheQuiet
#HopeThatEndures

Note on the spiritual undertones in “Can’t Let Go”

Beneath its noir tone, the song carries quiet traces of spirituality. The repeated tension between holding on and releasing mirrors a deeply human struggle found throughout Scripture—the desire to control the past versus the invitation to trust something greater than ourselves. “Can’t let go” is not just emotional attachment; it sounds like the soul wrestling with surrender.

There is an unspoken confession in the lyrics: acknowledgment of brokenness without denial, longing without easy resolution. That honesty echoes the psalms of lament, where faith is not polished but real. The song never preaches, yet it gestures toward the idea that healing does not come from erasing pain, but from being carried through it.

What makes the spirituality subtle—but powerful—is that the answer is not self-mastery. The weight feels too heavy to bear alone. That quiet recognition opens the door to grace. In Christian language, it resembles the moment before surrender, when the heart realizes it cannot save itself and must be held.

In that sense, Can’t Let Go becomes a prayer without religious language—a reminder that even in shadowed places, the struggle itself can be sacred, and that letting go is often less about loss and more about learning who is truly strong enough to hold us.

#SpiritualUndertones
#CantLetGo
#QuietFaith
#GraceInTheStruggle
#HopeInTheDark

Carrying Weight, Seeking Light

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Over the past several weeks, I’ve noticed a pattern rising in my heart—a mix of heaviness and hope, grief and gratitude, pressure and purpose. The holiday season always magnifies what is present in the soul, and this year is no different. I find myself remembering the people who shaped me, the stories that anchor me, and the losses that still echo in quiet moments.

At the same time, my days are full of responsibilities—engineering projects, community work, pastoral care, business decisions, family needs. I feel the pull from every direction, not because any of it is unworthy, but because all of it matters. Leadership in any form carries an invisible weight. And sometimes that weight presses harder in November and December.

Yet beneath all of this, something steady keeps tugging me forward: hope.

Not the thin kind that ignores reality or paints over pain. But the kind that believes God is present even in the unanswered questions. The kind that remembers that Jesus steps into weary places, not polished ones. The kind that says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

As I look back at conversations, projects, and prayers from the last week, I see the same thread weaving through everything: healing. Healing for myself. Healing for others. Healing for the places in our community that feel stretched or wounded. Healing for the dreams that feel fragile but not extinguished.

And the truth is, hope and healing aren’t found by escaping life—they grow right in the middle of it.

Every memory that stings reminds me there was love.
Every responsibility that feels heavy reminds me there is purpose.
Every moment of fatigue reminds me I need grace beyond myself.

And grace keeps showing up.

So I’m choosing to keep walking—one step at a time, one day at a time—trusting that the God who has carried me this far will carry me further still. My prayer is simple:

“Lord, meet me here. Make something good out of the weight I’m carrying. Let Your light break through.”

Because even in the heaviness, hope is rising.
#HopeInTheJourney
#JesusHeals
#GraceInRealLife

What I Would Tell You Now

For Joshua Blake Hargrove from John Hagrove his dad June 2025
1984–2002

My son,

If I could sit across from you today—twenty-three years after you left this world—I would begin with the words that still rise unbidden in my heart: I miss you. Every day. Not with the same sharp ache as before, but with a quiet, steady presence that stays with me like breath. You are never far from my thoughts, never absent from my soul.

I would tell you honestly: a piece of me went quiet the day you died—and another part went angry. I wasn’t just broken. I was furious. Angry at the unfairness, the helplessness, the fact that the world kept spinning without you in it. I didn’t know how to carry the weight of that kind of grief, so I buried it. I buried the part of me that laughed freely, dreamed boldly, and felt things too deeply.

And in its place, I went to work. I built things. I solved problems. I became dependable and productive. But underneath it all, I was still just a father who had lost his son. The music stopped. The prayers faded. I kept going because I didn’t know how to stop—but I also didn’t know how to live fully anymore.

If I could tell you anything now, it would be this: Your death didn’t end me—but it did remake me. And over time, with grace and patience, something inside me began to stir again.

I would tell you that God didn’t abandon me. He held me through it all, though I didn’t always recognize His presence. And in the years that followed, a few key people—some family, some unexpected friends—entered my life and helped awaken parts of me I thought were gone forever. None of them replaced you. They couldn’t. But somehow, through their kindness, gentleness, and love, I began to feel again. I began to believe that I could be fully alive, even while still carrying your absence. I hold those relationships with reverence. They brought back to life the part of me that knows how to love without fear.

I would tell you about your mama. She’s still the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Her grief was quiet, but it ran deep. We’ve grown older together, and we still speak your name. Sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. You are still part of our home, our hearts, our story.

I’d tell you about the little ones in our family—your cousins’ children, great-nieces and nephews you never got to meet. I watch them play, laugh, stumble and grow, and I see glimpses of you. Their lives are full of light, and I imagine the kind of uncle you would have been—funny, kind, full of mischief and wisdom. Your absence in those moments is a presence all its own.

I’d tell you that I’ve come to believe in resurrection—not just of bodies, but of broken hearts, of joy, of purpose. I’ve come to believe that the deepest love isn’t erased by death. It changes form, but it remains. And I carry you as part of that resurrection. You are part of what brought me back to life.

Most of all, I would tell you that you are still my son. Nothing—not time, not distance, not death—can ever take that from us. You made me a father. You taught me the kind of love that doesn’t fade. And though I never got to watch you grow old, you’ve shaped the man I’ve become more than anyone else ever could.

If I could hold your face in my hands one more time, I would say what I still say in the silence of prayer:

You are my boy. I love you. And I will carry you until the day I see you again.

With all I am,
Dad

And I would tell you—humbly—that someone came into my life many years later who helped awaken something that had gone dormant inside me. That I could still feel. Maybe I was allowed to be fully alive again. I hold that chapter of my life with reverence. As strange and sacred as it was, it brought something back to me I thought was lost forever: the part of me that knows how to love without fear.

Protecting Our Young People from Modern Extremism

764: A Critical Briefing for Ministry Leaders

Protecting Our Young People from Modern Extremism

Information for Pastors, Parents, and Youth Leaders

Executive Summary

The 764 network represents a critical threat to young people and has recently been classified by federal law enforcement as ‘modern-day terrorism.’ This briefing provides essential information for protecting the vulnerable youth in our communities, with particular sensitivity to the experiences of those in recovery or rebuilding their lives.

What Is the 764 Network?

The 764 network is a decentralized, international extremist organization that operates primarily online. Founded in 2021 by a teenager in Texas, 764 has expanded to become a coordinated network of predators that targets vulnerable youth globally. Federal law enforcement officials, including the FBI Director, now refer to 764 activities as modern-day terrorism.

Core Characteristics:

Nihilistic worldview rejecting moral norms and valuing chaos over society
Targets vulnerable youth, particularly those struggling with mental health, isolation, or trauma
Uses sexual exploitation, coercion, and psychological manipulation as primary tools
Members gain status by producing increasingly violent content and coercing victims

The Scale of the Problem

Current Law Enforcement Activity:

The FBI is conducting over 350 active investigations tied to 764 and similar networks
At least 28 people have been charged federally; some face terrorism charges
The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children is tracking nearly 2,000 abuse reports annually
Experts estimate 10,000 people worldwide are actively engaged in the 764 ecosystem

Where 764 Operates

The 764 network primarily uses mainstream gaming and social media platforms to find and target victims. These platforms are not inherently dangerous, but predators exploit them:

Discord – Gaming chat platform where 764 originally formed
Roblox – Youth-oriented gaming platform
Telegram – Encrypted messaging application
Instagram and other social media

How 764 Operates: The Grooming Process

Understanding the operational method is crucial for recognition and intervention. Predators follow a deliberate progression:

Initial Contact – Members identify vulnerable youth in gaming servers or social platforms, often targeting those who appear lonely, isolated, or struggling
Relationship Building – They establish trust by showing interest in the youth’s hobbies, struggles, and vulnerabilities
Information Extraction – Personal information is gathered: family details, mental health struggles, insecurities
Exploitation Escalation – Victims are coerced into producing sexual content or self-harm imagery
Blackmail and Control – Material is used to extort further compliance and deeper harm
Live Streaming – The most severe cases involve livestreaming self-harm or violence while the network watches and encourages escalation

Critical Warning Signs

Parents, pastors, and youth leaders should be alert to behavioral changes that may indicate a young person is being targeted or is already being exploited:

Behavioral Changes

Online Indicators

Sudden withdrawal from family and friends
Unusual secrecy about online activities
Unexplained injuries, especially self-harm marks
Significant mood swings or depression
Resistance to parental oversight

Excessive time online, especially late at night
Use of encrypted or private chat applications
Interest in disturbing, violent, or gore content
References to 764 or glorification of past violence
Requesting privacy on devices or hiding screens

Practical Guidance for Different Audiences

For Parents

Establish Open Communication

Have regular, non-judgmental conversations about online safety and the risks of predatory networks
Ask your teen to show you their games, online spaces, and social media—frame it as interest, not surveillance
Discuss current events and news stories about online predators in age-appropriate ways

Use Reasonable Monitoring and Limits

Implement parental controls on devices; balance privacy with safety
Consider device-free times or keeping devices out of bedrooms, especially at night
Know which platforms your teen uses and familiarize yourself with their features
Follow their social media accounts if possible; watch for sudden changes in friend groups

Strengthen Mental Health and Resilience

Predators target vulnerable youth—isolation, loneliness, and low self-esteem are risk factors
Encourage in-person friendships, activities, and involvement in faith communities
Seek professional counseling for teens struggling with mental health, trauma, or identity issues
Help your teen develop a strong sense of worth that isn’t dependent on online validation

Know What to Do If You’re Concerned

Report suspected exploitation to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (CyberTipline.org) or the FBI
Contact local law enforcement immediately if your child has been harmed or is in danger
Seek trauma-informed counseling for your teen; recovery will require professional support

For Pastors and Youth Leaders

Create a Trauma-Informed Ministry Culture

Establish a culture where teens feel safe disclosing struggles, concerns, and fears without judgment
Remember that young people targeted by 764 are often those carrying shame, struggling with identity, or rebuilding after hardship
Use trauma-sensitive language that recognizes vulnerability as a sign of courage, not weakness
Emphasize that God meets people in their current darkness, not after they’ve “fixed themselves”

Host Educational Discussions

Organize group conversations about online safety and the dangers of networks like 764
Use real-life (anonymized) examples to illustrate how predators operate and how quickly manipulation escalates
Discuss how isolation makes youth vulnerable and why faith community provides protection
Help young people develop spiritual discernment about truth, deception, and their own worth

Partner With Parents and Provide Resources

Provide parents with fact sheets and resources about 764 and online predator tactics
Host parent education events on digital safety and mental health support for teens
Create clear protocols for how to respond if a teen discloses exploitation or abuse
Know local counseling resources and have trusted professional referrals available

Understand Your Mandatory Reporting Obligations

Familiarize yourself with your state’s mandatory reporting laws regarding child abuse and exploitation
Know that in most states, clergy members are mandated reporters
If a teen discloses exploitation, do not promise confidentiality—explain that you are legally required to report
Report to child protective services or law enforcement immediately

Essential Resources

Reporting Suspected Exploitation

National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (NCMEC): CyberTipline.org – Submit suspected CSAM or exploitation
FBI: tips.fbi.gov – Report suspected extremism or violent threats
Local Law Enforcement: 911 or your local police non-emergency line
Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline: 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453)

Mental Health and Counseling Support

SAMHSA National Helpline: 1-800-662-4357 – Free, confidential, 24/7 referrals to mental health services
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 – Text-based crisis support
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 988 – Call or text for immediate support

Educational and Advocacy Organizations

Institute for Countering Digital Extremism – Research and resources on online extremism
Anti-Defamation League (ADL) – Resources on extremism and hate groups
Kids Online Safety Act (KOSA) – Federal legislation to require platform safety tools for minors

Conclusion

The 764 network represents a modern threat to young people that requires vigilance, partnership, and compassion. The most vulnerable among us—those struggling with isolation, shame, mental health challenges, or past trauma—are precisely those whom Jesus called us to protect and heal.

As pastors, parents, and youth leaders, we have both a responsibility and an opportunity. By staying informed, maintaining open communication, creating safe communities, and responding swiftly when concerns arise, we can protect our young people and offer hope to those who have been harmed.

Let us be vigilant, compassionate, and proactive in safeguarding the next generation.

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.

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.