Two years ago, Jacob Mathew Page lost his life on the job site. For any parent, that call is something worse than the worst nightmare.
Jacob was working at the oil field that day. It was a day like any other. The same amount of elbow grease, the same amount of grit. He’d done it day in and day out. He’d found a groove, working with a rhythm anybody in a blue-collar field could relate to.
The morning had begun in the mundane—coffee, quiet conversation and the soft planning of a day that would never actually arrive. When the phone rang, it was the Sheriff’s Department informing Jason and Kim that there had been an accident involving their son. They were left to navigate that frantic, prayer-filled drive to the hospital—a stretch of time defined by the racing uncertainty every parent fears most. By noon, their world had shattered. The journey of grieving a child had begun, but for the Page family, that grief soon found a secondary, more defiant shape.
There is a profound nobility in the way Jason has chosen to inhabit this loss. Where it would have been easier to retreat into silence, he has stepped back into the light of the industry that took his son.
“Jacob was an exceptionally hardworking young man who never met a stranger,” Jason shares. “He always carried a smile on his face and had a laugh that could light up a room.” To his parents, Jacob was a dedicated member of the First Baptist Youth group and a young man with a passion for community service. But more than the accolades, they miss the simple, physical reality of his presence. What they miss most are his hugs.
After Jacob’s death, Jason went to work. He formed a nonprofit 501(c)(3), aptly named Jacob’s Ladder, to advocate for, train and raise money to create a safer working environment for all. The foundation has developed a safety curriculum focused on high-risk industries, covering essential topics from Arc Flash and Fall Protection to Trenching and Excavation, alongside OSHA 10-hour and 30-hour training courses.
It is one thing to mourn. It is another thing entirely to dismantle the machinery of a tragedy so that it cannot happen to the next kid simply trying to make ends meet. By turning a site of loss into a foundation for education, Jacob’s Ladder moves beyond a simple memorial. Jason has found the balance of honoring his son’s name while still challenging the industry’s business-as-usual rhythm. The changes mentioned—from updated protocols to the tangible funding of safety gear—act as a manifestation of this father’s protective instinct, extended to every worker who steps onto a site today.
It is a grim irony that safety rules are often written in the ink of past accidents, but through this nonprofit, that ink is being used to redraw the blueprint of the American job site entirely.
The momentum of Jacob’s Ladder is fueled by a pervasive generosity that defines the soil of Kay County. Jason describes the surge of support over the last year as “overwhelming in the best possible way,” a testament to a community that refuses to let its neighbors walk through the dark alone. In Ponca City, the mission has moved beyond a family’s private grief to become a collective responsibility. There is a deep, foundational gratitude in Jason’s voice when he speaks of the local businesses and individuals who have stepped forward.
There is a hard-won wisdom in Jason’s voice when he speaks to the next generation of laborers. It is a plea for them to recognize their own value before they ever pick up a tool.
“Take the time to think before you act,” he pleads. “Ask questions whenever you are unsure, and never be afraid to speak up.”
To Jason, the most powerful tool on any job site isn’t a wrench or a rig: it’s the courage to stop the clock when your gut tells you something is off. He is adamant that your life matters more than the job and that no amount of money is worth risking the empty chair at the dinner table.
In a town built on industry, it is easy to focus solely on the fruits of the labor. But Jacob’s Ladder’s mission reminds us that the true architecture of our community isn’t the product we produce, but the people working within it. When local businesses step up, they are helping build that ladder, rung by rung, ensuring that hard work doesn’t have to come at the cost of a homecoming. Jacob’s memory has become a shield, and Jason—and Ponca City—are the hands holding it steady.
How to Help
You can learn more about Jacob’s Ladder via their Facebook page, their website or by attending one of their many events. They take donations directly on their website at jacobsladderfsat.com or by calling (580) 401-3515.