And that's the rest of the story.

Growing up in Mississippi in the 1970's and 80's, a few voices echoed week-in and week-out. There was the church minister whose words were lofty but always followed the same sales pitch intonations and Glen Garry Glen Ross patterned close. Then there was the baseball coach whose words were belted out back back back well over the left field fence of imagination. Of course, you also had the stable of school teachers – the precise words of the Algebra teacher, the misplaced storytelling of the History buff, the quiet whispers of the Architectural Engineer, the sing-song phrasing of the British-expat English expositor, and for me – the devastatingly cute Art bohemian who frankly, well –– I don't remember any of her words per se – but rather it was her texture and raspy quality that perfectly matched her unkempt curls. 

Then, there was a voice that eclipsed them all.

Paul Harvey died this week. 

He gave us a sound quality far more distinct than his two first names. He gave us content, wrapped in impeccable storytelling. He gave us the unexpected twisting rest, of the story – a promise we knew would be fulfilled – but wait friends, only after we listened to his own personal brand endorsement. Paul gave us the unspoken social commentary. Certainly if the silent majority had a voice, it was Paul's. And Paul Harvey gave us at least one other thing.  He gave us the timing and patterns and list upon list of items that would all make sense if we'd just hang in there just a few seconds more. There would be more still, and it would all come together if, and only if, we'd lean just a little closer to the radio. Because if we would all hold our collective breath he would reveal his secret. It would be something he was going to share only with you. It would be your personal secret from Paul's mouth to your precisely tuned ears.

And at the perfect moment, finally, he would wet your ear with the revelation.

So simple.

The twisted path made straight. All the knots now neatly tied into a perfect quilt of braided leather.

So clear that all was needed was to let it sit there and be quiet and enjoy the moment.

Paul Harvey was the master of the pregnant pause. 

This week Paul Harvey died. And there is no rest, of the story. He leaves us all wishing he'd break the silence just one more time. 

Goodbye Paul Harvey. We'll miss you.