And Now You Know . . . The Rest of the Story

I miss Paul Harvey.

For those of you too young to have heard him, Paul Harvey was a radio broadcaster with a daily spot entitled, "The Rest of the Story." Every day Paul Harvey would relate a story that, through some twist, would come to an unlikely yet uplifting, witty, or instructive ending. He then ended the segment with the now famous lines, "And now you know . . . the rest of the story."

When I was old enough to ride next to my dad in his truck or the tractor, but not old enough to understand and appreciate the show, I teased my father incessantly about his mundane, lifeless radio choices. Sooner or later, though, I began enjoying Harvey's narratives. Unwilling to give up the daily banter, I still complained about the show long after I began enjoying it; however, I recognized that there was comfort in knowing that whatever travails and tensions unfolded as the story was told, their value would be remarkably clear when hearing "the rest of the story."

In some ways, many of us would like the same comfort in knowing the rest of story when it comes to our lives right now. We may not want to know the future specifically; but we do want to know that in the end, it's all going to work out all right. Will I be rewarded for persevering in my current job? Why have I been treated unfairly? Will I ever reconcile with my family? What will my marriage look like in ten years? Will my enemies be punished? Am I a good enough parent? Was that purchase really worth it? Will I ever be healthy?

I think we'd all like to know, 50 or 100 years after our death, that the ghost of Paul Harvey will get on the radio and tell our story to the masses through the magic of syndication. They would hear of our worries and mistakes, of the injustices and doubts that have plagued us; then Harvey's tone would gently shift, listener's would unconsciously increase the volume, and "the rest of the story" would encourage and reassure them that life does in fact work out how it should.

I've come to believe, though, that we do know the rest of the story. We just aren't ready to believe it. The rest of the story tells us that the end is not dependent on us because we are not the main character. We are placed in to the story, offered a spot as a character, and invited to join in the plot. But the story is not ours. Or, I should say, it's not only ours. The story we are in is God's.

When we read a book or watch a movie, we enter it with the understanding that the main character isn't supposed to lose, especially if it's a "feel-good story." The American hockey team will defeat the Russians, Harry will meet and successfully woo Sally, and The Goonies will find the treasure they seek. That's how it works. Our disappointments in life come not from the main character losing; they come when we're watching the wrong character.

We are not only not the main character, we are playing equal roles with the other supporting characters. They matter as much as we do. They are equally as essential, and we must view each other in that way. Others in our life, both the ones we like and the ones we don't, do not exist to move the action in our own lives. They are not our character foils or supporting actors, not the nemesis to overcome or the mentor to guide. We are all family members of the main character who get to share in the story. We would all do good to see the other characters with the same importance as we do our own.

We are indeed living in a feel-good story. But the story doesn't resolve with any sort of earthly victory for us, or any semblance of sense to be made of the pain, suffering, or injustice we've incurred. Instead, the rest of the story has us exalting the Main Character, the Victor. And at the end, when we are experiencing "the rest of the story," I believe we will find ourselves wishing we had not spent so much time with our eyes away from the Center of the action.