There’s a tenderness in Merle Haggard’s music that makes even the simplest melody feel like a companion for life. In 1983, on the album That’s the Way Love Goes, he gave his voice to a song that speaks of love’s quiet rhythm—how it lifts, how it falters, how it simply carries on. Merle didn’t dress the words in grandeur. His delivery was unhurried, seasoned by years of triumphs and regrets, as if he were leaning back in a chair, sharing a truth learned the hard way. The steel guitar sighs in the background, while his voice turns each note into something lived, not just sung. Time hasn’t dulled its glow. “That’s the Way Love Goes” lingers like a gentle breeze at dusk, reminding us that love’s beauty lies not in perfection, but in its persistence.

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Introduction

Every once in a while, a song comes along that feels less like a performance and more like a quiet truth. Merle Haggard’s “That’s The Way Love Goes” is exactly that — a gentle reminder that love isn’t always fireworks and grand gestures, but something tender, fragile, and deeply human.

Originally written by Lefty Frizzell and Sanger D. Shafer, the song had already seen success before Haggard touched it. But when Merle recorded his version in 1983, he made it entirely his own. His delivery is soft, almost conversational, as if he’s leaning back in his chair, guitar in hand, reflecting on all the ways love can lift us up and break us down. It wasn’t just another single — it earned him a Grammy for Best Country Vocal Performance, cementing its place as one of the highlights of his legendary career.

What makes the song so timeless is its honesty. It doesn’t try to dress love up as perfect. Instead, it accepts the joy, the heartbreak, and the unpredictability that comes with giving your heart away. When Haggard sings, you feel the weight of a man who has lived those words — who has loved deeply, lost painfully, and still finds beauty in the journey.

For fans, “That’s The Way Love Goes” is more than just a country ballad. It’s a philosophy in three minutes — a tender acknowledgment that while love isn’t always easy, it’s always worth it.

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Lyrics

I’ve been throwing horseshoes
Over my left shoulder
I’ve spent most all my life
Searching for that four-leaf clover
Yet you ran with me
Chasing my rainbows
Honey, I love you too
That’s the way love goes
That’s the way love goes, babe
That’s the music God made
For all the world to sing
It’s never old, it grows
Losing makes me sorry
You say, “Honey, now don’t worry
Don’t you know I love you too?”
And that’s the way love goes
That’s the way love goes, babe
That’s the music God made
For all the world to sing
It’s never old, it grows
Losing makes me sorry
And you say, “Honey, don’t worry
Don’t you know I love you too?”
And that’s the way love goes

Country Music

ON HIS LAST BIRTHDAY, THE JOKES DIDN’T SHOW UP — AND HE DIDN’T MISS THEM. For years, Jerry Reed filled rooms without trying. Laughter came easy. So did the notes — quick, playful, never heavy. He made music feel like it was smiling back at you. That night was different. No stage. No crowd waiting to be won. Just a kitchen table, a small cake, and the people who knew the man before the momentum. He looked quieter. Not sad — finished. When he raised his glass, there was no punchline chasing it. Only a familiar grin, softened, like it had finally found a place to rest. You can hear that ease in “Amos Moses.” The joy isn’t forced. It moves because it wants to. Jerry didn’t stop being funny. He just stopped performing it. Same spirit. Same smile. The music stayed — it just learned how to sit down with him.

Country Music

THE LIFE DIDN’T BEND — IT TAUGHT HIM HOW TO STAND. From a young boy cradling a tiny dog in Oildale’s dusty backyard, to a defiant teenager locked behind San Quentin’s steel bars, to the man stepping onto stage with a guitar that carried his name — Merle Haggard’s life was anything but easy. His father was gone too early. The house was small. His mother worked past exhaustion to keep it standing. Trouble came before direction. Prison came before purpose. And inside those walls, music didn’t rescue him — it sharpened him. When Merle walked out, he carried a voice that knew exactly where it had been. Hungry Eyes. Mama Tried. Sing Me Back Home. Merle never dressed life up to make it easier to hear. He left it bare. Because some songs aren’t meant to comfort you — they’re meant to tell you where you’re standing.

Country Music

THE NAME DIDN’T NEED TO BE SAID. Marty learned early that singing a Merle Haggard song meant answering a question — not asking one. There was never a lesson about how to carry it. Just an understanding that some songs don’t belong to the voice alone. When Marty sings “Mama Tried,” it doesn’t sound inherited. It sounds accepted. Like a man standing inside a truth that already knows his weight. He doesn’t lean on memory. He doesn’t correct the past. He lets the song keep its edges, the way his father always did. This isn’t a son repeating a legend. It’s a man choosing to stay accurate — even when accuracy costs more than comfort.

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