I do the very best I know how - the very best I can; and I mean

Host: The night had fallen over the city, thick and heavy like a wool blanket. Rain tapped softly against the window of a dim café, where the neon sign flickered with a tired pulse — “Open,” it claimed, though the streets outside were nearly deserted. Inside, steam rose from two cups of coffee, curling upward like ghosts of thought. Jack sat by the window, his hands clasped, eyes distant, jaw set in quiet determination. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her dark hair casting shadows on her face, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup as if measuring the silence between them.

Host: The quote that had sparked tonight’s conversation still lingered in the air, scribbled on a napkin between them:
“I do the very best I know how — the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end.”
— Abraham Lincoln.

Jeeny: “There’s something pure about that, isn’t there?” Her voice was soft, almost melancholic. “To keep doing your best even when the world refuses to see it. That’s courage, Jack.”

Jack: (smirks slightly) “Or maybe it’s stubbornness. Lincoln didn’t have a choice, Jeeny. He was leading a nation through war. What else could he have said? ‘I’ll give up halfway’? Sometimes doing your best isn’t enough — and pretending it is just makes failure easier to swallow.”

Host: The light from the streetlamp caught the edge of Jack’s jawline, outlining it like a blade. His grey eyes didn’t flicker once. He looked like a man who had made peace with disappointment.

Jeeny: “You always make effort sound like a burden. But think about it — Lincoln didn’t say, ‘I’ll succeed until the end.’ He said he’d keep doing his best. There’s dignity in that, even if you lose. That’s the difference between living by purpose and living by results.”

Jack: “Purpose doesn’t pay the bills. Purpose doesn’t end wars or rebuild nations. Results do. You can have all the dignity in the world, but if your ‘best’ doesn’t make a difference, what’s it worth?”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, as if the sky itself were pressing against the glass, listening. Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her cup, dark and bright, reflecting the neon light like flames.

Jeeny: “You think Lincoln believed that? If he’d judged his worth only by results, he’d have quit after his first defeat. Remember — he lost elections, failed in business, buried children. Yet he said he’d keep doing his best ‘until the end.’ That’s not about success. That’s about faith.”

Jack: “Faith,” he repeated, the word carrying both mockery and weariness. “Faith doesn’t build bridges, Jeeny. Work does. Strategy does. You can have faith all you want, but when the bullets start flying — when people are dying, or starving — ‘doing your best’ sounds like a comfort line for the hopeless.”

Host: Jack’s voice dropped lower, rougher — like gravel dragged across metal. For a moment, his hands trembled, but he quickly hid them under the table.

Jeeny: “You talk as if hope is a luxury, Jack. Maybe it is. But without it, why bother doing anything at all? People like Lincoln — they kept trying because they believed that doing their best mattered, even if no one noticed. That’s not comfort. That’s resilience.”

Jack: “Resilience is romanticized suffering. I’ve seen people work their whole lives, giving their best — and they die in obscurity. My father did. He was a factory man for thirty years, Jeeny. Never missed a day. Never complained. Did his best until the end — and the company replaced him with a machine before his funeral flowers** wilted. Tell me, where’s the dignity in that?”

Host: The words hit like thunder muffled beneath the rain. Jeeny’s eyes softened. She didn’t speak at first. The steam between them blurred their faces, turning both into ghosts of the past.

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack,” she whispered. “But maybe your father’s dignity wasn’t in the recognition. Maybe it was in the refusal to stop being himself — to keep giving what he could, even when the world didn’t care. Isn’t that the same thing Lincoln meant?”

Jack: “No,” he said flatly. “Lincoln’s best changed the course of a nation. My father’s best changed nothing.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights sweeping across the window, throwing light and shadow across their faces like a shifting truth neither could hold.

Jeeny: “But you’re here because of him, aren’t you?” Her voice quivered, but her eyes didn’t. “You carry his strength, his persistence. Maybe his ‘nothing’ is the reason you’re something.”

Jack: (pauses, looking down) “Maybe. But I still think this blind insistence on ‘doing your best’ can become a trap. It keeps people running in circles, thinking effort is enough. Sometimes you have to admit your best isn’t working.”

Jeeny: “Admitting failure doesn’t mean you stop. It means you learn. That’s part of doing your best too. Maybe that’s what Lincoln meant — not perfection, but persistence. To keep learning, to keep trying. Until the end.”

Host: The silence returned, thick and almost tangible, filled with the echo of what wasn’t said. The rain slowed, and the neon sign outside hummed louder, like an old violin straining to hold its note.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But I wonder — what if Lincoln’s idea only works when you believe there’s a moral purpose behind what you’re doing? What if you’re just... surviving?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe survival itself is the best you can do. Maybe doing your best isn’t about changing the world — it’s about not letting the world change you.”

Host: Jack looked up sharply, his eyes searching hers as though that one sentence had cracked open something buried. The tension softened, just a little. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, every act of kindness, every small effort — it would all mean nothing. But history doesn’t remember only victors, Jack. It remembers the ones who tried when no one else would.”

Jack: “Like Lincoln.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Or like your father.”

Host: A long pause stretched between them — not empty, but alive with understanding. Jack’s hand moved, almost involuntarily, to the napkin with Lincoln’s words. His fingers traced the ink, now smudged slightly by moisture.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe doing your best isn’t about changing everything. Maybe it’s about refusing to give less, even when you know it won’t matter.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Because the moment you stop trying — that’s the real end. Not death. Not failure. The end begins when you stop doing your best.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shimmered, reflecting both light and sorrow. Jack leaned back, exhaling, as if letting go of a weight that had been pressing on his chest for years.

Jack: “You always find a way to make idealism sound practical.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And you always find a way to make realism sound sad.”

Host: They both laughed, softly — not from humor, but from relief. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a stillness that felt like an exhale from the universe itself.

Steam rose once more from their cups, twining upward like hope, fragile but unbroken.

Host: As they sat in the fading light, the napkin with Lincoln’s words lay between them — a small, quiet testament. It no longer felt like a quote from history, but a promise they both silently made: to keep doing their best, not for recognition, not for result, but because it was the only way to stay human.

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered one last time — and then, with a faint hum, went dark. But inside, the room remained bright, lit by something that no storm could touch.