My grandson Ben Jacks called with a story that could only have been arranged by God himself.  Ben sells large undeveloped properties to deer hunters.  He works up in Kansas--not the most populated area in the US.

An older man met Ben at a property that was for sale, and the man had a Marine Corps sticker on his vehicle.  When the man got out of his vehicle, Ben said, "Semper Fi, Devil Dog."  Ben said the man stopped, looked at Ben and said, "Your last name is Jacks--are you a Marine?"

"No, sir, but my dad and granddad are." (You never say you "were" a Marine.  Once a Marine, you always are a Marine.)

"Is one of them named Ken?" The man asked.

"Both of them are, sir."

"Was one of them a fighter pilot?"

"My grandfather, sir."

"I know him.  He was highly respected in the Corps.  Everyone I knew spoke of him as the greatest fighter pilot in the Marines.  I didn't get to work directly with him as he taught cadets to fly, but I got to watch him.  He was something.  You have a name to be proud of.  Wear it with honor."

Ben said he later learned that the man was a retired Marine four star general.  What is the chance of those two meeting up in a deserted area of Kansas.  It meant the world to Ben to meet someone who admired Ben's grandfather.