Single Malt Scotch

It was the fall of 1986 I was in Arcadia, California and he was the boyfriend of my fiancé’s college roommate. We drank the Dalmore neat. I had never tasted Scotch or anything quite like it and it was beyond my ability to give words. Yet I was aware of something that was both awakened and filled that I had not yet even begun to understand. We’ve shared many conversations since and often stamped them the same way… I have not spoken to Cliff in a long time.


It was December of 1993 and we drank the Oban with a splash on the second story balcony. He was the oldest friend that was still a part of my life and yet it was our first glass together. It was late when we started talking and early when we finally went to bed. The taste was unique and again I was unable to give language that conveyed all that was going on for me and yet I knew I was now not filled… We have been together many times since and laughed and mourned over those memories that should be honored and that fill the chapters of the now long story we have each composed and had written on the pages of our lives. It is time for Mark and me to share another glass.



I had shared many conversations with Chris and they had each built on the other from the very early ones over Tacos al Pastor at the Taqueria La Perla De Jalisco to the one we were sharing at his home on the winter night before us. It was a new introduction to him and our guest that night would be from the Glen Morangie. (Glen is a Scottish word for a long, deep valley often ascribed to the Highlands). It would begin a tradition that would stamp his marriage, the birth of his children (and mine), numerous states, multiple homes and many moments of glory and loss. It would be exchanged with ice, neat, a splash, or however the occasion or fancy dictated; nevertheless, something else happened with him: one another.

This story is not about Single Malt Scotch and it is. Single indicates the whisky comes from a pot still distillation process at only one distillery. Malt indicates that it is distilled from a singular grain: barley (as opposed to rye, wheat or blend) and Scotch (whisky) is distilled in only one place on earth: Scotland. Single Malt Scotch must be matured a minimum of three years however most single malts are matured over much longer periods and usually increase in value and cost with time.


I now hold in my possession an opened bottle from the Isle of Arran. The contents are labeled as bottle no. 509 of 756 produced. Volume 57.4% Alc./Vol. Bottled 7.2.06: Limited Edition. Its original home was an Oloroso sherry cask where it matured for many years; then was filled into a fresh Gonalez Byass cream sherry cask until it was deemed ready in 2006 to occupy the bottle I now hold. I say hold, because its contents is not mine to own, but to give lavishly away. The air in the top of the bottle has been placed there in three states and the sky miles earned by this bottle have it approaching a free roundtrip.

One another… Somewhere after a significant time venerating the maturating process occurred, crystal (etched with the initials of the connoisseurs honoring the tradition) became necessary. They were bestowed in Texas in 2005 traveled to Salt Lake in 2009, enjoyed sunshine in Napa Valley in 2010 and sub-freezing temperatures in Michigan in February, 2011 and each time they helped empty the contents of a bottle like this one. I look forward with great anticipation to the next time we will empty and fill our lives together. Perhaps Chris will be holding his son Ren in his arms. It would be right for him to do so.

This story is about Single Malt Scotch and it is not. It is about filling and loss. It is about long and deep valleys and highlands. It is about mourning and laughter. It is about rare and beautiful. It is about precious and unique. It is about individual and one of a kind. It is not about the drink it is about the drinker. It is about the pouring out and taking in. It is about the conversation, the sharing and the relationship. It is about the empty glasses that allude to a filling to come. It is about life and love and laughter; and it is about death and sorrow and loss. You see if there is no loss there can be no reunion. If there is no sorrow there can be no redemption. If there is no death there can be no resurrection. I long to be filled again by the "one another" with my friend.

Are You All In?

In the summer of 2006 I asked a buddy of mine to come and teach at the upcoming fall retreat for the call (the name the young adults, over which I pastored for 8+ years, gave themselves to reflect who they desired to be; people walking worthy of the calling c.f. Ephesians 4:1-6). While I can not remember the specifics of the messages he brought that year, I will never forget the theme and the impact it has had on my life everyday since. After agreeing to speak, my friend forwarded a picture to me (below) with the theme of his teaching in the form of a simple question, an invitation if you will, about ones’ philosophy of commitment in life. I was stirred by his invitation because although it was not new to me, it did reflect the single most significant question I have ever been asked or ask of others; Are you all in?

I see great beauty and danger in the picture; adventure, risk, color, life, strength, movement, stillness, unknown… Questions arise; How deep is the water, how high is the cliff? What risk is involved, how big is the rush? Do I look that good in a swimsuit? Would I jump? Am I all in?

It was summer in Oregon and there was an old iron bridge, now relegated to only foot traffic, that would testify to whether or not I was all in this day. My friend Jon had taken me to Hi Rocks Park on the Clackamas River near where I grew up, to prove my masculinity (or kill myself trying.) Initially I could not overcome the fear of the jump, but in an attempt to save face in front of my friend (and the thousands of observers that patronized the river that day) I finally climbed down under the bridge to the pipes on the bottom and suspended myself by my hands clinging to the lowest part of the bridge until fatigue demand my fingers release and my body fall to the water 20 feet below. Without hesitation (or reason) I returned to the bridge, climbed up the rail and jumped the 40 feet to the water… but that second time I experienced a different (out of body) experience… In the moment when my shoes left the rail and my body escaped the reach of the iron, something inside of me felt like it leaped in the opposite direction of my movement to return to the safety of the bridge now fleeing fast above. Again on the bridge the third time I experienced the thrill and beauty of being all in for the first. My fear of death was tempered by the hope of life, the successes of overcoming in the past now spoke truth of the adventure ahead, the glory of transcending the accomplishments of the spectators on the shore tasted sweet in my soul. The day concluded with countless victories over my iron foe and the triumph of battle well won.

I have been “all in” now for many years. And, there are new proving grounds that I am faced with every day; greater heights from which to hurl myself, unknown waters to enter and treacherous journeys to navigate. I wish I could say that I never take time to climb to the bottom and cling to the “pipes” of life that make me feel secure until fatigue demands I succumb to the truth of glory. I wish I could say that there is never any part of my heart that seems to flee me for the apparent safety of yesterstep. I wish I could say that I always experience the freedom of flight and the exhilaration of risk without hesitation, but I can’t.

I am about to jump again… Is there risk? Absolutely! Will I die? Not today! Am I watched by spectators who will each have vantage points that affect how they perceive my bound? Certainly! But I have jumped before and lived. I have tasted success and glory. I have experienced life and loved it. Truly God is relentless in His kindness to me. Geronimo!!!

Mark in the Margins

Mark in the margins... It is my g-mail address and now has become the name for my blog. Still, it seems as though some explanation is in order especially since there is significance to me and even multiple meanings to the name I have selected.

In 1969 when I was a boy I can recall my very first Bible. It was awesome... colorful and vivid was the picture of Jesus entertaining the little children on the outside cover. I longed to be such a child and especially be like one who was entertained by Jesus in that picture... (That story is one for another day). I was so proud of that Bible. I took very good care of it. I was cautious to never leave it out of place, and for a little kid that was nothing short of remarkable, and for certain never mark in it. After all it was sacred, the Word of God, His Word, and should never be defiled by pen or pencil... I even think I was taught this somewhere...

In December of 1986 at the first Christmas Tracy and I spent together she purchased me a Ryrie Study Bible with concordance and to this day that gesture ranks at the top of gifts I have received. I loved the significance of the gift and even more the words she WROTE in the front cover. Still, the tradition I had begun as a child so long ago remained intact and the Bible was not a place for me to transcribe my thoughts or impressions into language.

In 1992 something changed... after the 1st birthday of my second daughter several things converged to radically alter my life; I met a man named Chuck who ignited a hunger for me to be Baptized, I began meeting with a man named John who mentored me and exposed me to a doable format of Bible study, Scripture memorization and transparent life exchange with other believers, and we started attending East Valley Bible Fellowship (they later purchased land and changed their name to Church, but in the early days they were know as fellowship...) and I sat under the teaching of a man name Tom who invited me to learn from God's Word in a way that demanded I capture insights in the margins of the Bible Tracy had given me those years ago, but that still remained unmarred by pen or pencil.

Filling the margins of that Bible was a joy. I began capturing not only meanings and insights, but thoughts and convictions. I began to allow the Word to impact my life in new ways and the hunger for more began, albeit slowly and deliberately, to infiltrate not only my understanding of His Word, but also my desire for more in Life (again a story for days to come). The margins of the Bible Tracy gave me became a journal for me to mark the Ebenezer's of my journey of restoration and redemption that had come, came, and was to come.

In the Fall of 2009... I purchased a battery for one of my cars and paid a $9.00 deposit that I could recapture if I returned the old battery. I went home, changed the battery and placed the old one in the trunk of my VW to return as I could. While I don't recall how long it took me to return the battery, I do recall the efforts it took and the loss I felt as I purchased a huge bag of baking soda to nutralize the acid that had spilled as a result of that battery tipping over and damaging a ton of things in my trunk, including the Bible Tracy had given me so longe ago. It was a complete loss and suffice to say it was worth more to me than the $9.00 credit I would later receive. 'Nuff said... Also in that time, when the margins of the Bible I so cherished were lost I became aware of other margins that were all but gone... There was no space in my life. There was no financial space, no emotional space, and my spiritual space was fastly going too. I needed margin and I needed it in the worst way.

My best friend Russ came to me one day and shared something like '...if you take your favorite passage, poem, lyric, or text and write it down... single space it... no indentations... print it and when you do cut off the margins the printer leaves as it can't print within about .22 inches of the edge of the paper, so that there is nothing but your favorite writing (and no space) on the page...' He continued that I shoud then read it a few times and shared that before long it would begin to frustrate me or even cause me to lose enjoyment for that which I had previously so enjoyed. While I did not do that with the text, I was aware of the severe loss of pleasure I had been experiencing in my life... The margin was gone and so too was so much of what made me unique and a joy to be with.

And so this blog is a journal of sorts, of my pursuit of myself in the margins and a return to the joy that makes me unique and fun to be with.