JAMES BARNES

There was a quiet strength to James — the kind you don’t notice right away because it’s not loud or flashy. It’s steady. It’s faithful. It shows up every morning and loves with its whole heart. That’s the kind of man he was.

He was a preacher, yes. But more than that, he was a husband who adored his wife beyond words. A father whose pride in his children ran deeper than anything else. A grandpa who loved with such fullness it could melt even the hardest days. His life wasn’t marked by grand gestures, but by the everyday kind of goodness — the kind that holds a family together, that teaches love by example, that works hard not for recognition, but because it’s the right thing to do.

Those who knew him didn’t have to wonder where his heart was — it was in his family. Always. He didn’t just say he loved them more than anything. He lived it. In his eyes, in his voice, in the way he held his grandbabies close like they were made of stars.

If there’s one thing James would want his family to remember, it’s not the sermons or the years — it’s the love. He’d want them to remember the way he showed up, the way he stood by the people he loved, and how deeply he believed in holding them close. That kind of love doesn’t end. It echoes.

And if they had one more moment with him? Just one? It would be to say thank you. For the foundation he laid. For the love he gave. For being the kind of man this world doesn’t see enough of.

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."
— 1 Corinthians 13:13