Jon Kyl Steps Down: The Quiet Giant Who Shaped Arizona and the Nation

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025A tribute to Jon Kyl: quiet powerbroker, Arizona's steady hand, and architect of crucial water policy.

So when Jon Kyl, at 83, stepped away from public life with a short message about his dementia diagnosis, very little about the news took those who watched his career by surprise. The words he chose were sparse, careful, tinged with gratitude rather than self-pity: “I was blessed to represent the people of Arizona in Congress and to have numerous other opportunities…” There wasn’t much to analyze, really, unless you counted the way the statement landed—a little like the sound of slow rain you first notice only after it’s been falling for some time.

Kyl’s life in public office, stretching from 1987 in the House to his two terms in the Senate, never followed the beats most politicians feel compelled to strike. He seemed immune to the fever of the news cycle. Even as he eventually reached the rank of Senate minority whip—a job that typically turns even the most careful thinkers into headline-chasers—he resisted the lure of spectacle. It was as if his compass pointed, unwaveringly, toward the nuts and bolts: regulatory language, levy negotiations, the wonkish finesse required to steer colleagues together on something like water rights—a subject as dull to most outsiders as it is vital to anyone living in Arizona.

It’s tempting for writers, when someone exits public life, to name some signature moment—some gaudy piece of legislation or dramatic filibuster—but with Kyl, that gesture feels off-key. Instead, ask around Phoenix or Tucson about water, and you are likely to land on his legacy before his name. The river deals and water access compacts he brokered didn’t simply fill a notebook with signatures; they earned him the rare accolade of having ASU’s water policy center bear his name. Not that you’d hear him boast—he was in the habit of returning phone calls himself, even late in the day, long after the conference rooms had emptied out.

If you go by headlines, it’s Kyl’s steady hand during Arizona’s last political convulsions—after McCain’s passing, in those months of collective rawness in 2018—that stand out. He didn’t fill McCain’s shoes, exactly. Nobody could, and nobody expected it. Instead, Kyl walked Arizona through a transition with a tone more akin to a trusted accountant settling the estate than a showman grabbing for the spotlight.

Some staffers recall, with a mixture of awe and disbelief, how he managed to keep tempers in check during the most combustible debates. It was never about who yelled loudest. “He had this knack,” one former aide said, “for quietly changing the course of a meeting with one well-placed question.”

You can linger over the technicalities—his role shepherding Brett Kavanaugh through a blizzard of controversy in 2018; his influence on judicial nominations and tax language no ordinary voter ever sees—but these are beads on a string that stretches back through decades of diligent, sometimes tedious, public service.

On the day his diagnosis became public, there was the usual chorus of tributes from both sides of the aisle. Mark Kelly, who has rarely had reason to praise a predecessor, noted Kyl’s dedication to “water security” and his devotion to Arizona itself. The University of Arizona pointed to his “leadership, integrity, and commitment to service.” Former President Bush reached for the phrase “highly intelligent,” and while it’s a politician’s favorite, in Kyl’s case it didn’t feel out of place.

Private stories leak out around these official statements—the hurried lunch breaks spent puzzling over water contracts, the five-minute detours into a side office to encourage a frazzled legislative aide. Arizona had claimed Kyl long ago, even though Iowa was where he grew up and Nebraska his birthplace. The desert suited him—hard edges, no flash, and everything built for the long haul.

When it came to his sign-off, Kyl borrowed a line from Ronald Reagan about leaving public life. But he added what those who know him might expect—a nod to the future, a wink at his faith: “I am also comforted by knowing my Redeemer lives.” There’s a kind of grace to slipping out the door so quietly, especially for someone with as much to boast about as Kyl. The story he leaves behind isn’t a headline or a single, era-defining statute. It’s a pattern of steady contributions—the sort that, as time passes, might outlast the noisy accomplishments of others.

Arizona will feel the shape of that contribution for a long while yet, whether anyone’s making note of it or not. In that, Kyl’s legacy seems set: less a monument than a riverbed carved slowly over years—vital, enduring, and quietly essential.

If you were ever to catch Jon Kyl in a crowded hallway—perhaps back when the monsoon heat hung thick in Phoenix and the state legislature was in one of its sullener moods—you might almost miss him. He wasn’t the sort to command a room with sweeping gestures or thunderous speeches. No, Kyl’s influence lived instead in quiet nods, firm handshakes, long hours behind closed committee doors—the understated choreography of someone convinced that the real work is what happens when nobody’s rehearsing for the cameras.So when Jon Kyl, at 83, stepped away from public life with a short message about his dementia diagnosis, very little about the news took those who watched his career by surprise. The words he chose were sparse, careful, tinged with gratitude rather than self-pity: “I was blessed to represent the people of Arizona in Congress and to have numerous other opportunities…” There wasn’t much to analyze, really, unless you counted the way the statement landed—a little like the sound of slow rain you first notice only after it’s been falling for some time.Kyl’s life in public office, stretching from 1987 in the House to his two terms in the Senate, never followed the beats most politicians feel compelled to strike. He seemed immune to the fever of the news cycle. Even as he eventually reached the rank of Senate minority whip—a job that typically turns even the most careful thinkers into headline-chasers—he resisted the lure of spectacle. It was as if his compass pointed, unwaveringly, toward the nuts and bolts: regulatory language, levy negotiations, the wonkish finesse required to steer colleagues together on something like water rights—a subject as dull to most outsiders as it is vital to anyone living in Arizona.It’s tempting for writers, when someone exits public life, to name some signature moment—some gaudy piece of legislation or dramatic filibuster—but with Kyl, that gesture feels off-key. Instead, ask around Phoenix or Tucson about water, and you are likely to land on his legacy before his name. The river deals and water access compacts he brokered didn’t simply fill a notebook with signatures; they earned him the rare accolade of having ASU’s water policy center bear his name. Not that you’d hear him boast—he was in the habit of returning phone calls himself, even late in the day, long after the conference rooms had emptied out.If you go by headlines, it’s Kyl’s steady hand during Arizona’s last political convulsions—after McCain’s passing, in those months of collective rawness in 2018—that stand out. He didn’t fill McCain’s shoes, exactly. Nobody could, and nobody expected it. Instead, Kyl walked Arizona through a transition with a tone more akin to a trusted accountant settling the estate than a showman grabbing for the spotlight.Some staffers recall, with a mixture of awe and disbelief, how he managed to keep tempers in check during the most combustible debates. It was never about who yelled loudest. “He had this knack,” one former aide said, “for quietly changing the course of a meeting with one well-placed question.”You can linger over the technicalities—his role shepherding Brett Kavanaugh through a blizzard of controversy in 2018; his influence on judicial nominations and tax language no ordinary voter ever sees—but these are beads on a string that stretches back through decades of diligent, sometimes tedious, public service.On the day his diagnosis became public, there was the usual chorus of tributes from both sides of the aisle. Mark Kelly, who has rarely had reason to praise a predecessor, noted Kyl’s dedication to “water security” and his devotion to Arizona itself. The University of Arizona pointed to his “leadership, integrity, and commitment to service.” Former President Bush reached for the phrase “highly intelligent,” and while it’s a politician’s favorite, in Kyl’s case it didn’t feel out of place.Private stories leak out around these official statements—the hurried lunch breaks spent puzzling over water contracts, the five-minute detours into a side office to encourage a frazzled legislative aide. Arizona had claimed Kyl long ago, even though Iowa was where he grew up and Nebraska his birthplace. The desert suited him—hard edges, no flash, and everything built for the long haul.When it came to his sign-off, Kyl borrowed a line from Ronald Reagan about leaving public life. But he added what those who know him might expect—a nod to the future, a wink at his faith: “I am also comforted by knowing my Redeemer lives.” There’s a kind of grace to slipping out the door so quietly, especially for someone with as much to boast about as Kyl. The story he leaves behind isn’t a headline or a single, era-defining statute. It’s a pattern of steady contributions—the sort that, as time passes, might outlast the noisy accomplishments of others.Arizona will feel the shape of that contribution for a long while yet, whether anyone’s making note of it or not. In that, Kyl’s legacy seems set: less a monument than a riverbed carved slowly over years—vital, enduring, and quietly essential.