Within weeks of her diagnosis, Hargrove experienced a second, devastating loss. Her son, Jarvis, was killed at the age of thirty-one. The loss was sudden, violent, and devastating. While she was fighting for her own life, she was also burying her child. Yet, Hargrove says she sensed that God had not abandoned her.
Hargrove does not describe her story in terms of certainty or resolution. She does not say she has been cured. She still takes chemotherapy medication and will do so for the rest of her life. But today she is in remission. She is walking again. She is standing again. And she believes God has preserved her for a purpose. “There were people around me who didn’t make it,” she said. “I’m still here.”
That sense of calling is what brought her back—not just to work, but to service. Hargrove has worked as a barber and stylist since 1987. Over four decades, she built her life around a skill she learned early and never abandoned. Though she spent time working in nursing while raising her children, she always returned to hair—work that allowed her to serve people directly, face to face.
She now offers haircuts and styling at the Highland Park Community Assistance Network Thrift Store. On designated days, she cuts hair for donations that support the church. At other times, she charges modest, affordable rates so that people who have gone years without professional care can come without shame or fear of cost. She gives a portion back to the church and uses the rest to cover basic needs, including medications not fully covered by insurance.
Her focus is on making a positive impact rather than earning money. “I just want to do what God gifted me to do,” she says. “If I can help somebody feel better about themselves—about their life, even for a moment—then I know I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Hargrove’s testimony is simple and steady: God did not remove every hardship, but He did not let go of her either. As long as she can stand, she intends to serve. She approaches each day with a quiet determination to use the time she has been given.
Among evangelical churches, the picture was more complex. Large congregations, particularly those with regional or digital reach, remained stable. Some even grew. However, many small evangelical churches closed. These closures reflected demographic shifts, changing patterns of participation, and the long shadow of the pandemic.
Some churches sold property and relocated; others gave birth to new churches before disbanding. Some created community spaces, partnered with other ministries, or repurposed facilities to serve broader needs. It was a year of honest questions about mission, stewardship, and presence.
Baptist Temple remained, committed to presence over numbers and content to be smaller if it meant staying rooted. Old memories—revivals, full choirs, packed Sunday schools—no longer defined the present reality. Yet they remained witnesses, reminding the congregation that faithfulness is measured in obedience rather than numbers. BT’s story is about a sanctuary that remained open, a congregation that refused to surrender its calling, and ministries that adapted rather than disappeared—a story of resilience.
The neighborhood changed, attendance dipped, and the pandemic disrupted familiar rhythms. What emerged was not retreat but resolve. The church learned new ways to serve the community, simplified programs, leaned into relationships, and reclaimed the basics of worship, teaching, and care. BT learned that strength is not measured in size but in presence.
Attendance did not return to former highs, but engagement deepened and baptisms followed. New leaders emerged. The church remembered that it did not exist to preserve a building or a legacy but to bear witness to the gospel in this place and time.
BT remained faithful in a neighborhood shaped by poverty, transition, and displacement. Success came to be measured in food served, prayers offered, and doors kept open—a place of continuity in a continually changing neighborhood. Victory looked like persistence: a church still gathering, a pastor still preaching, a congregation still praying for its neighborhood.
Baptist Temple’s story is not one of decline but of survival shaped by faith—a church that weathered cultural change, economic pressure, and seasons of uncertainty and still remains. Still worshiping. Still serving. Still standing.
Melissa Baxter added, “It brought the young and the old together on a project, working together as a church body for a family who was there working alongside us.”
“The first family in particular was so engaged and so appreciative. I still maintain contact with the homeowner and drive by the home often when in San Antonio,” said Newton.
BT raised some of the funds, but the money came primarily from a grant from Wells Fargo Bank, where church member, Carol Gray, worked. Church members provided the labor.
Shad Purcell, youth Minister at the time, remembers that the experience shaped his understanding of ministry. Working side-by-side with church members, sharing physical labor and common purpose, embodied the kind of communal faith he valued.
Prior to the laborers’ arrival, the site would have a slab poured, utilities connected, and a pile of prefabricated walls ready to be assembled. For several weeks a work crew would be on the site hammering, roofing, drywalling, painting; lunch would be prepared in the church kitchen and brought to the site. Robert Persky said that a group of retirees were there every day. “I remember Aurelia Newton on the roof nailing in shingles,” said Robert’s wife, Muriel, who was also at the work site daily.
“I will never forget standing in the yard and glancing at the home on that final Saturday afternoon... children were hauling grass, women who had been on the roof and hanging Sheetrock were now inside cleaning. Eighty plus year old men were finishing up the wooden fence and I'm almost certain I heard God proclaim, ‘Well done my good and faithful servants!’” said Newton.
