One summer day in 2013, I stopped by my parents’ house. That little white suburban rambler, perched on a gradual rise, was like so many of its vintage—built by young men returning from war, eager to raise families in the burgeoning suburbs. Some wrote songs mocking the “little boxes all the same,” but to me it was a slice of heaven. It was the place of my wonder years, the keeper of my parents’ possessions, and, most importantly, home to my mom in her late 80s and my 93-year-old dad.
Dad had recently announced that he was suspending the three-times-a-week dialysis treatments that had kept him alive for seven years. Despite our protests, he had made up his mind—he was ready for his heavenly graduation. That afternoon, we sat together, talking about the places he’d been and the things he’d done. He recalled island-hopping as a Navy corpsman and his return aboard the USS Hornet 2, sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge as bands played and crowds cheered. Listening, I couldn’t help but think Dad was about to sail once again—this time into a place where the streets are gold and the welcoming throng is heavenly.
After a few stories, I noticed his energy fading. He looked at me and said quietly, “You have never disappointed me or your mom.” I wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but I could see he meant it. Then he repeated a portion of a biblical verse he had shared often: “Children’s children are a crown to the aged.” Suddenly his still-sparkling blue eyes lit up. “I have something to show you,” he said.
I followed him down the hallway—past that old 1950s bathroom with its pink tile that somehow served a family of six, past the bedroom I once shared with my brother, and finally into the room he and Mom had shared for 56 years. Opening his closet, he pulled down a box. Turning to me, he said, “This box has old family things—some of it junk, some interesting. But the most valuable is this journal written by your great-great-grandfather, Leslie Orcutt. It covers the years from about 1857 to 1920. I never knew what to do with it. But you’re a writer—you’ll figure out how to share it.”
A few weeks later, my siblings and I gathered with Mom at Dad’s bedside as he took his last breaths. The nurse assigned to him in those final days sat beside him, holding his hand. With tears in her eyes, she said to us, “You know, I’m not a very nice person. I’ve done a lot of things I regret. But your dad was so kind to me. There’s something different about your family that makes me want to be more like Ken.”
A week later, a full church gathered to celebrate the life of an imperfect man made perfect through God’s redeeming love.
In the years that followed, we cared for Mom until her passing. Not long after, I began to think about Dad’s “final assignment”—that journal tucked away in the closet. What began as a transcription project grew into a book, The Sun Rises Just the Same. It became more than a record of pioneering life. It became a reminder that faith and resilience are threads woven through generations, waiting to be shared so those who come after us will know the God who redeems, restores, and sustains.
In the end, Dad’s “last assignment” wasn’t just about a dusty journal—it was about the sacred responsibility we all carry. Our stories are not ours alone; they are gifts meant to be handed down, living testimonies of God’s redemption and faithfulness. When we share them, we give our children and grandchildren more than history—we give them hope, courage, and a foundation of faith to build their own lives upon. That is the true legacy we leave: lives stitched together by resilience, redeemed by grace, and remembered in love.
About Bruce Schultz
Bruce Schultz is a Minnesota author who loves to tell stories where history and faith meet. He
spent 30 years discovering and giving voice to his marketing clients’ brands. His recent book,
The Sun Rises Just the Same, began with a journal entrusted to him by his father—his “last
assignment.” Bruce enjoys sharing stories that remind us our lives are part of a much bigger
legacy. Upcoming book projects include, The Friday Evening Post and It Goes Without Saying.
