I was always intrigued by the Steve Hogg whose name was etched into the white granite stone in our family cemetery. I knew he had served in WWII and was my dad’s favorite uncle. He drowned in Michigan while fishing and is buried near his parents on the hill behind our house where I cut the grass as a kid.

In the years since I located one photograph of him – sitting on some porch steps petting a dog. He’s wearing a hat and looking like a handsome, confident young man. Recently I discovered a news story about his death in a Michigan newspaper and his obituary in our small home town paper. It was 1949 and he was 32 years old. He was my grandfather’s baby brother.

I often thought about him marching with Patton’s army and surviving German gunfire. He didn’t live long enough to enjoy the American boom that followed during the 1950s. Yet he was one of the many men and women who’ve worn our country’s uniform so we could enjoy life in this very blessed nation.

On this Veterans Day I remember him and I see the white stone bearing his name that I touched so many times as kid. I remember my dad’s favorite uncle – the veteran I never knew and my namesake.

Pastor Steve Hogg