The Rest of the Story

When I was growing up, my parents loved listening to The Paul Harvey Show on the radio. One of his most popular segments was called And Now You Know…

Each story would begin with a familiar event, person, or commonly accepted belief. Then Harvey would reveal little-known details, unexpected twists, and hidden connections. By the end, what seemed simple at first became far more nuanced. His intention was to invite listeners to consider more than one perspective, and he always ended the segment the same way:

“And now you know…the rest of the story.”

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about that phrase.

A Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime

Many years ago, I was introduced to the poem A Reason, a Season, or a Lifetime. The poem suggests that people enter our lives for one of three purposes. Some arrive to teach us something specific. Some walk beside us for a period of time. Others remain for the duration of our lives.

For years, I found comfort in that idea. I’ve quoted it countless times and genuinely believed it helped explain why relationships begin and end. But over the past several months, I’ve found myself questioning it—not because I think it’s wrong, but because I’ve been wondering if there is more to the story.

The answer I’ve come to is that, for me, it’s less about how long someone stays and more about the impact they leave behind.

Dean

Today marks twenty-four years since my brother-in-law Dean died by suicide.

Dean was not only married to my sister. He was also one of my dearest friends, loved by many people, and his death left a hole that could never be completely filled.

In the years since, I’ve returned to the words of that poem many times, trying to understand where Dean fit. Was he in my life for a reason? A season? Both? The reality is that, in years, Dean was only part of my life for a relatively short time. Yet the impact of his life and his death continues to ripple through mine.

His loss sparked a journey of self-discovery that helped shape the woman I am today. The questions I wrestled with, the grief I carried, the healing I pursued, and the compassion I developed all grew from that experience. Through the stories I share about Dean, he continues to impact people who never had the chance to meet him.

That realization has stayed with me. It has also made me think about all the people whose fingerprints remain on my life long after our paths have diverged.

The Crossing Guards

When I was in kindergarten and first grade, I walked to school each day and passed two crossing guards, Emma and Mrs. King.

Emma was a gruff woman who constantly hurried me along whenever I lagged behind. Mrs. King was warmer and more cheerful. Both of them knew every child’s name. Looking back, I realize they helped plant an important seed in me. They taught me that people outside my family could notice me, care about me, and help keep me safe. They left an impact.

Mrs. Roth

Mrs. Roth was both my kindergarten and first-grade teacher.

I remember being excited when I first saw the classroom because it was decorated like a castle. To my young imagination, it felt magical. Over time, however, my excitement faded.

Mrs. Roth had a habit of yelling throughout the day. One of our assignments was to watch Sesame Street every afternoon after school. The problem was that our television rarely worked. If we couldn’t complete our “homework,” we had to remain at our desks during recess.

More than once I missed recess because I hadn’t watched the show. Eventually, even when our television did work, I stopped watching Sesame Street because it reminded me of sitting alone while everyone else played.

Not all impacts are the ones we would choose, but they shape us nonetheless.

Burt Bacharach

When I was six or seven years old, I accompanied my mother on a visit to her sister, who worked at a restaurant co-owned by Burt Bacharach.

As we crossed the parking lot, I walked straight into an air-conditioning duct and hit my head hard. Before I knew what was happening, a man rushed over, scooped me up, and carried me into the restaurant while my mother hurried behind us.

He sat me on a bar stool, found ice for my head, and then made me a sundae. Not just any sundae. He carefully arranged the cherries, whipped cream, and sprinkles into the shape of a clown face. As I happily devoured every bite, he chatted with my mother and smiled with delight.

That man was Burt Bacharach.

To this day, whenever I hear one of his songs, I think of that clown sundae and smile. He left an impact.

Mrs. Park

Mrs. Park was my speech and debate teacher for three years in high school.

On the first day of class, she instructed everyone to move the desks and chairs to the edges of the room. We were paired with a partner and asked to sit on the floor facing one another. Her instructions were simple: share one thing about yourself, then move to another partner and share something different. Every conversation required a new piece of yourself.

When everyone had spoken with one another, we formed a large circle. One at a time, each student sat in the center while the rest of the class shared what they had learned about that person.

Then came the part I remember most. For fifteen minutes, we sat in silence. Mrs. Park invited us to look around the room with what she called “new eyes.”

That exercise filled the first three class periods of the year. It was also the only class I never missed, the only class where I knew everyone’s name, and the only class where I consistently felt connected to the people around me.

She left an impact.

Baba Mandaza

In 2016, I traveled to Africa after a series of dreams about white lions called me there. The first part of that journey took place in Zimbabwe, where one of our guides was Baba Mandaza.

At one particularly difficult moment—physically exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed—I asked him if I had come all this way to die.

He looked at me and replied, “Perhaps you are dying in a way you hadn’t considered before.”

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant. Now I do. Parts of me were dying there—old identities, old fears, and old stories. The parts that had outlived their usefulness and were standing in the way of growth.

He left an impact.

The Lifetime of Impact

I could continue with story after story. Family members. Friends. Teachers. Lovers. Strangers. People I knew for decades and people I met for only a few moments.

The older I get, the less interested I am in determining whether someone was in my life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. What matters more to me is the impact.

From our first breath to our last, we are shaped by the people around us. Some remain beside us for the entire journey. Others cross our path only briefly. Yet their words, actions, kindnesses, wounds, lessons, and love continue to travel with us.

Perhaps the true measure of a relationship is not its duration but its influence. Perhaps the people we encounter become part of us in ways we never fully understand. And perhaps that is the rest of the story. Not how long someone stayed, but how deeply they touched a life.

Perhaps Impact is…

The Rest of the Story