Some bottles are meant to be collected. Some are meant to be admired.

And some are meant to be opened at exactly the right moment, passed around a room, and connected forever to the people who shared them.

On Friday, I attended the funeral of Janis Brown, the mother of one of my oldest and closest friends. Our families first became connected when we moved to Fort Pierce, Florida, in 1969. I was about 3 years old.

Tony and Janis Brown had five children — Kelly, Jay, Samantha, Kerrick and Matt, whom we called Shannon back then. My brother Jeff was closest in age to Jay, and they became great friends. I usually ended up playing with Kerrick and Shannon, even though they were younger than I was.

We lived within walking distance of each other. The Brown children often came to our house to swim in the pool, and we would go to their house to play in their enormous family room or backyard.

The Browns had what seemed like a permanent open-door policy. There were always people at their house, including us. Their home was full of children, friends, noise, activity and life.

Our connection continued long after we moved away.

Tony became my dentist for a while. My mother had a local television program in Fort Pierce called “Take Two,” and after we moved to Texas and then Pennsylvania, Janis took over the program. It eventually became “Around Town with Janis Brown.”

When my father later became publisher of the newspaper in Fort Walton Beach, the Browns came to visit us there. Jeff and Jay became college roommates. Our families remained connected through moves, marriages, children and the passing of years.

When Daryl and I were married in 2015, Jay was one of the few old friends who was able to be there. He became an impromptu groomsman.

Suffice it to say, we have loved the Brown family for a very long time.

Three of Janis’s five children tragically preceded her in death. But at her funeral, the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who remain gathered in full force. They were united in their grief, in their love and in their determination to give their matriarch a royal sendoff.

Janis died at 92 after being diagnosed with a brain tumor. She spent her final days at the Orlando home of her son, Matt, surrounded by family members who loved her.

And she remained faithful.

Even as her health declined, she insisted on receiving the Eucharist regularly. She prayed the rosary without fail. Jay traveled from Gainesville to Orlando to read Scripture and pray the rosary with her.

The faith Janis professed was not confined to a church building or a Sunday ritual. It had become part of the family she helped create. You could see it in the way they gathered around her as she died and in the way they gathered again to honor her life.

The wake, funeral Mass and reception were beautiful and deeply moving. I was blessed to be there.

And, because I rarely travel anywhere these days without it, I brought my bourbon bag.

The bag has four compartments, and I tried to fill them with bottles that might mean something to the people gathered there.

I brought my Stagg Jr. 25D because it is one of the finest bourbons I own, and the occasion deserved something special.

I brought a bottle of Florida Victorious Death Roll bourbon because of the Brown family’s deep connection to the University of Florida.

I brought an Old Grand-Dad 114 single barrel because it is exceptional bourbon, but also because of a connection I had only recently discovered. Janis’s maiden name was Rapier, and one of her ancestors married a son of Basil Hayden.

And whose portrait appears on nearly every bottle of Old Grand-Dad?

Basil Hayden himself.

But the fourth bottle was the one that found its moment. It was a small white jug of Green River single-barrel bourbon that I had filled myself in Louisville.

While reading Janis’s obituary before the funeral, I learned something I had never known. She was born in Owensboro, Kentucky, and raised in Louisville before eventually migrating to Fort Pierce.

Green River bourbon was also born in Owensboro. My particular bottle had traveled to Louisville, where it was poured into the little white jug that gave it its present form. Then it traveled with me to Fort Pierce.

At the reception, I found myself being the last person to stand and share a few words about Janis.

I talked about the long connection between our families and about how special I believed the Brown family to be. Then I held up the little jug. I explained that the bourbon had been born in Owensboro, moved to Louisville, and then migrated with me to Fort Pierce.

“This bourbon,” I told them, “is Janis Brown in a bottle.” While the rest of the family held champagne glasses, I lifted the Green River and toasted their matriarch.

Then I shared it with anyone who wanted some. Because that is what bourbon is for, isn’t it? Not simply to be owned. Not merely to be evaluated, ranked, photographed or displayed on a shelf.

Bourbon is meant to be shared with people who mean something to us.

A few minutes later, I sat with Jay’s middle son, Anthony. We had shared a few pours the evening before, and we began talking about how much that Green River bourbon really did resemble his grandmother.

At 124 proof, it is spicy. So was Janis.

The bourbon is delicious, and Janis was a wonderful, delightful human being who brought flavor wherever she went.

It packs a punch. So did she.

Janis did not hold back much in the way of words. Her family always knew where they stood with her, and several of the loving memories shared during the funeral alluded to how direct and forceful she could be.

The bourbon is complex, and few people are as simple as they first appear. Janis certainly wasn’t.

But beneath the spice, strength and complexity, the Green River is sweet. So was she. Janis was loving, faithful and deeply devoted to her family.

After we had considered all of that, Anthony added one final observation.

“It’s also brown,” he said. Just like she was a Brown.

That settled it. Green River Single Barrel truly was Janis Brown in a bottle.

I do not know whether there is a bourbon somewhere that would reflect my own personality in so many ways. Perhaps that is for someone else to decide someday.

But I am grateful I had the foresight to bring that little jug with me. I am grateful I opened it. And I am grateful I shared it.

The Christian life is built around that same movement. We receive, and then we give. We are filled, and then we pour ourselves out.

Jesus did not preserve himself behind glass. He gave himself completely. At the Last Supper, he took the cup and gave it to his disciples. He told them to drink. He made the cup an act of remembrance, communion and love.

Janis understood that sacred meal. Even as her body weakened, she continued to receive the Eucharist. She continued to pray. She continued to place herself inside the story of Christ’s sacrifice and promise.

And now her family carries that faith forward. That may be the most meaningful legacy any person can leave behind. Not possessions preserved on shelves. Not accomplishments engraved on plaques. But faith poured into children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and friends until it becomes part of who they are.

A good bourbon can remain sealed for decades and never become anything more than a bottle. It becomes a memory when someone opens it.

A life can be guarded, protected and held tightly. But its real beauty is revealed when it is poured out for others.

Janis Brown lived 92 years. She poured her faith, strength, spice, sweetness and complexity into generations of people who gathered on Friday to honor her.

I poured a little Green River into a glass and raised it in her memory. The bottle is lighter now. But the memory is fuller.

And that is how it should be.