The Last Best Day

 a short reflection presented at
First Parish Church in Bedford, Massachusetts
November 17, 2024

In the last days before the election, 
I heard many different people use the same metaphor: Waiting to hear the voters’ decision
 was like waiting for a biopsy report to come back.

That turns out to be a situation I know very well. Over the last 28 years, 
my wife Deb has had three independent cancers 
and one scary benign growth. So I’ve seen a lot of bad biopsy reports.

After the first one, 
a breast cancer in 1996, 
I honestly had no idea whether or not she would live. The doctors outlined a 9-month course of treatment 
that sounded pretty arduous, 
and even then they could offer no guarantees 
that she wouldn’t die anyway. 

Fairly quickly we decided to take that hard road. But it took us a few days longer 
to figure out how to think about it. 

When you face that kind of planned hardship, 
the immediate temptation is to write that time off, 
to put your head down and bull through it. You figure you’re bound to be miserable anyway, 
so just try to get it over with however you can. Look past it to better times in the future.

But that was precisely the problem: We couldn’t be sure we had a future together. Any day might yield some new symptom or new test result 
that would set us on a steep downward slope. So any day, 
as unpromising as it might seem at the time, 
in retrospect might turn out 
to be the best day we had left together. 

What a waste it would be 
to write off that last best day. Or worse, to let it be ruined 
by dread of what might come next.

So we developed a practice 
that we eventually started calling “How is this day not going to suck?” Looking at the particular opportunities and limitations 
of each individual day, what could we do to appreciate being alive?

Some days we could get out and go for a walk. Other days, the best we could manage 
was a to take a pretty drive. Or snuggle together on the couch 
watching 3-minute music videos. Or Deb could stay in bed, 
and I could read to her.

That strategy, I am happy to report, worked, 
in both senses. Treatment was successful, 
and Deb is sitting right there. But also, we did more than just survive, 
and I am grateful 
that we did not write those months off. I value the memory of that time, 
and I am glad we did not miss it.

So now let’s pursue the metaphor: Our national biopsy came back, 
and from my point of view the outlook is not good. I’m sure you’ve been hearing many apocalyptic predictions — environmental, economic, social, or political apocalypses might be on their way. And I can’t tell you those visions are wrong. I can’t promise you everything will be OK.

But how should we look at this? My experience tells me 
that we can’t let ourselves be overcome with fear and dread, and we can’t just write off these next four years. People will tell you “Try not to think about it.” But just for a moment, do think about it. What if the doomsayers are right 
and the worst happens 
—whatever “worst” means to you?

If that’s true, then this day 
— as unpromising as it might seem 
compared to the kinds of days we were hoping for — could be one of the last best days. What a shame it would be not to appreciate it.

So yes, do whatever you can 
to try to turn the world away from whatever vision of the future worries you. In the metaphor, 
that corresponds to the treatment program. But while you’re doing that, 
don’t forget to live. Your chance to experience freedom, justice, democracy, 
and perhaps even happiness itself 
may never be this good again. 

Don’t miss it.