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Known or unknown, everyone has their element, their zone, their place.

Mine involves the warmth of late evening sunshine, a swimming pool, and a poured whisky. Apart from conversation with my family, and their occasional gleeful splashing, there is very little else I’d need at the end of any day’s laboring to keep the preceding hours from seeming futile.

Indeed, this is often the feeling throughout the year. And while the vacation I’m currently enjoying provides rest from the seemingly unending bustle, it bears a terrible clarity, too, as it puts into perspective my reality.

My day begins in the dark and it ends in the dark, and too often by the time I finally arrive at the doorstep of rest’s potential, I find I’m only hours from beginning it all again. Weekends do not necessarily offer what I’m experiencing right now. Neither do holidays.

Will I die with regrets? Probably not. There’s far too much of what I do that proves both my love for it and that I’m meant to do it. But will I die exhausted? It is likely; that is, unless I’m eventually found resting in my zone. Once there, I can only hope that each day will be likened to this moment.

The air will smell as it does.
The water will lap quietly, being nudged by a gentle breeze.
The palm trees’ branches will sway as they do.
The sun will beam the last of its late day twinkling through an ambered glass in my hand.
And I will be resting.

Of course, some will read this and say, “Nothing is certain, dear clergyman.”

“Ah,” my simple reply must be, as I glide to another corner of the pool. “You speak only a half-truth, my friend. Death and the countless doors that open to it are certain.” And then, in order to bring my detractor to the edge of my zone, I’d continue, “If a man knew he would die tomorrow, he’d most certainly dream the night before. What would those dreams be? Only he could tell. For most in our world, I’d imagine them to be quite concentrated. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t matter. No matter his wishes or regrets, his time is done. No more tomorrows are coming. Imagine, now, a man who knows every tomorrow brings the possibility of his death. Such a man’s dreams do not remain in his mind, but rather are carried through to his waking moments to assist in the steering of his vessel.”

What do I mean?

The day before the Lord carries me to my eternal home, I know where I want to be, what I want to be doing, and with whom I want to be doing it. Is it certain? No. And yet it’s not a shapeless dream, but rather a materialized one, and together we have hold of the helm. Together, we are doing what we can to enjoy the current horizon, being sure to batten the hatches against the storms of regret as we pass from this sea to the next. All the while, our eyes remain fixed on the promise of a restful shore bearing exceptionally restful fruits.

I imagine that The Classic Cask’s 23-year-old Original Cask will be a fruit to be had in those days.

A gift from my District Bishop and friend, Jamison Hardy, this delightful dram prompts the soaring promises of the restful days I described, proving that as a pastor’s pastor, he knows how to care for his men in the trenches.

With a nose of baked chocolate mousse touched with honey, this exquisitely blended dram of single malts calls from the shore with an alluring song. Once there, it greets each visitor with an undulant embrace of native fruits—namely plums and black currants, both of which have been touched by the same honey from the nose.

Its medium finish is a mesmerizing glide back through the spectrum of delights introduced by the nose and palate, each one being a reminder of why one might take a chance at traveling to this shore in the first place.

In his poem “Dream Pedlary,” Thomas Lovell Beddoes once asked, “If there were dreams to sell, what would you buy?” I’ve shared how I’d spend my money. As a friend to my readers, I’d urge you to consider the question and do the same.