
Our good friend Larry Rand suggested that we write on the topic of ‘Tomorrow is promised to no one’. Larry has good reason to examine this thought as he has been slugging it out with cancer for the last few years. So far, Larry is winning.
At first, I was not sure how to approach the topic, but this last week has brought news of two friends who survived close calls – and two who did not. Tomorrow is a prize that not everyone can claim.
On the first day of Spring, I stood on a hilltop in the windy cold, observing the interment of a man who didn’t reach tomorrow. His ashes, housed in an urn crafted from wood taken from his sailboat, were being buried. John was a guy who stayed in the background – modest – he never sought the limelight. He volunteered to drive the elderly to medical appointments or to the airport – he called himself a ‘road pilot’. He was cherished by his family. His son found some of his writings, including an entry shortly before he passed. At that time, he was in the hospital and was awakened by a lullaby broadcast over the PA system. When he asked the nurse if he dreamt of the episode, she told him that when a new baby is born, the hospital played that song, regardless of the time. John wrote, “I wish that baby has as good a life as I have had.”
Now there’s a person who knew the value of tomorrow, but had made his peace with the fact that it wasn’t a given.
I’ve read that Martin Luther, the great Christian reformer from the 1500’s, would tote up his sins every night and pray for absolution, so that he could start each new day with a clean slate. I like that idea for a number of reasons. The Greek word for sin used in the Bible is hamartia – and it means ‘missing the mark’. No matter what your faith beliefs are, I think that most folks would agree that we miss the mark fairly often.
It makes sense to me that if we take the opportunity to accept our daily missed opportunities and missteps; figure out how to do better, ask our Maker, our universe, and ourselves for forgiveness and the chance to improve – we would better appreciate the gift of a brand, new day (Thanks for the title, Sting!).
The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

Henry, Wally, Larry and I all met around the Spring of 1966. That was Rush time at New Paltz State University back then. We have been friends now for about 60 years. That is a good run as far as friendships go, and there are more brothers still in contact over these 60 long years. It just happened that way. Larry has been following the 3oldguys for a while now and makes good, helpful and thoughtful suggestions to us. So his comment about tomorrow is promised to no one, hit home. This is a hard topic for me to write about. In the last year I have lost over a dozen old friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. It isn’t unusual for people around my age to start seeing their community shrinking. And every time it does, it reminds me that some day tomorrow may not come. Those times usually strike late at night when I can’t sleep, and my mind is thinking about the person I just lost. It isn’t a long lasting nor overwhelming feeling and is usually washed away by the necessities of living today. But it does put things into perspective and acts as a reminder to all of our immortality.
Three years ago I had the honor or privilege of being present at the passing of one of my closest friends. Sal had suffered for several months in the final stages of cancer. His friends took turns staying with him during the day and Hospice came in at night. Most of the time he was either in an induced sleep or under the effect of morphine or whatever is used to disguise the pain he was experiencing. There wasn’t much conversation other than soft conversation with another friend who came that day. I wanted to be there to make the day as easy for him as possible. I made sure he was comfortable in bed, warm enough and had a class of water close by if he woke enough a take a sip. We were told by the professionals that tomorrow may not arrive for him and a couple of us just wanted to be close by. We were having a soft conversation when suddenly we realized the room had become very silent, almost unearthly silent. We looked at each other, thinking the same thought that our friend had passed. It was strange about the silence because we had almost been whispering and there were no other sounds in the apartment but we suddenly realized at the same moment that something was different. We knew right away that Sal had experienced his last day. The weird thing about it was that it wasn’t at all terrifying, it was peaceful and almost comforting to realize at that moment, without any noticeable discomfort or upsetment the end had arrived. We stayed until the authorities arrived and made the official pronouncement. The tears waited til I arrived home and though of course they were tears of sadness, there was a sense of peace to it all as well.
Larry’s comment made me think that if tomorrow comes, it gives me the opportunity to evaluate yesterday’s errors, and if I have one more tomorrow I will have the chance to correct what I screwed up yesterday. As Annie said, “The sun will come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun….” There may be sun tomorrow somewhere but for others there may be no tomorrow!
What Larry Reminded Me About Time

The saying “tomorrow is promised to no one” has never been unfamiliar to me. It’s often linked to a line delivered by a character played by Clint Eastwood and echoed in the life and legacy of NFL great Walter Payton, though its roots stretch back much further, even to biblical teachings. Still, words remain just words—until something brings them to life.
Our friend Larry understands that distinction. More than understanding the sentiment, he seems to be living it.
I’ve often spoken—and written—about the importance of living in the moment. In theory, it’s a powerful antidote to fear, stress, and uncertainty. In practice, it often escapes me. Too easily, I let the least important things—those that are simpler, more appealing, or immediately gratifying—consume time that should be reserved for what truly matters. My sense is that Larry is choosing differently, spending more of his time focused on what endures.
As a grandfather, I find myself reflecting on all the things I once overlooked or dismissed—lessons that now feel essential. I think about how best to pass that hard-earned perspective on to my grandchildren, even while knowing that youth carries with it the illusion of endless tomorrows. When you’re young, time feels abundant, and urgency feels unnecessary. Short of staging an intervention, all I can do is plant seeds—through conversation, through example, and perhaps through reflections like these. Larry’s words have stayed with me. They serve as a quiet but powerful reminder: every moment matters. We don’t need to wait for life to confront us with a crisis to start living as though it does.
“Live as if today were your last day, learn as if you were to live forever.” –Mahatma Ghandi







