There are a few bottles on my whiskey shelf that are almost empty.

Normally, that isn’t much of a problem. If there’s only an ounce or so left in a bottle, I can finish it, add it to an infinity bottle, rinse out the glass, and make room for something new. Whiskey bottles are, after all, supposed to be emptied eventually.

But some bottles are different.

I have an Evan Williams Single Barrel from 1998. That happens to be the year my daughter Lizzi was born. I have another from 2007, the year my Mom died. Neither bottle was purchased because of some extraordinary rarity or astronomical value. The years are what transformed them into something more than whiskey.

And now, as those bottles get closer to empty, I find myself reluctant to pour the last glass.

Not because I think the whiskey will somehow improve by sitting there. Not because I believe an almost-empty bottle is worth more than an empty one. I simply feel as though the final pour deserves the right moment.

Maybe the 1998 should be shared with Lizzi someday. Maybe the 2007 belongs to some quiet evening when remembering Mom feels especially close. I don’t really know.

So the whiskey waits.

There is something hopeful about setting a glass aside for later. You only save something for another day if you believe another day is coming.

Paul wrote in Romans that “hope that is seen is not hope,” and then added, “if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” That is not always an easy kind of waiting. Most of us would rather know the date, the hour, the outcome, and preferably have some kind of tracking number.

But faith doesn’t usually work that way.

Christian hope lives in the space between what God has already done and what He has promised still to do. We remember Christ’s birth, His ministry, His death, and His resurrection. We remember prayers God has answered and moments when His presence seemed unmistakable. We remember people He placed in our lives, including some we now miss terribly.

But Christianity is not a faith built entirely on memories. Something is still coming.

Even Communion carries that tension. Paul wrote that whenever we eat the bread and drink the cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death “until he comes.” We remember. And we wait.

Maybe that is why those nearly empty bottles mean something to me. One points toward a life that began in 1998. Another points backward toward a life that ended in 2007. Both carry memories that cannot be recreated simply by buying another bottle.

So I don’t want their final pours to disappear into an ordinary evening. I’m waiting for the right moment.

There are times when waiting feels like nothing is happening. We pray and don’t see an answer. We hope for healing, reconciliation, direction, restoration, or some sign that God is still working, and the silence can feel painfully long.

But waiting does not mean God has forgotten.

Sometimes the very act of waiting says something about what we believe. We wait because we believe there is still more. We hold onto hope because we believe God is still writing the story. And sometimes we leave the glass set aside because we believe there will eventually be a moment worth raising it.

Every bottle on my shelf will someday be empty. Every possession I treasure will eventually belong to somebody else or disappear altogether. Even the memories attached to them belong to this temporary life.

But Christian hope points toward something that will never run dry. There is a celebration still ahead. And until that day comes, we remember what God has already done, trust what He is doing now, and wait with hope for what we cannot yet see.

Sometimes faith looks a little like a glass set aside. Not forgotten. Just waiting for the right moment.

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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt