The Fizzy Bottle

I haven't a clue how to write a book. I want to. Others have told me, for years, that I would. That they would read it.
I have even set aside time, long hours and days, to do so. Carved it right out of the wood of my busy-ness.
Yet, I sit here terrified. Afraid of what needs to be written. Afraid of words painful, flowing from my pen as I pick the shards from my heart, lest my heart bleeds and I can no longer staunch the flow of ache. Of words.
What if I can not stop the overflow of my grief, of my life, bursting from the bottle, fizzy, and spilling upon the table, the world?
And what if, after all that uncorking, I am left empty. And no one really cares anyway. And I am left alone, to mop up the sticky mess that I have made.
As I sit, worrying over the task before me, I see more clearly the fingerprints that have been smudged across my sight and are now removed; that this is about courage. Not fear.
This is a lesson in willingness. To walk forward when my knees feel ready to give way. To write a single string of letters with spaces, when a million such are required.
This is about being willing to live in expectation, not dread. To walk in gratefulness, not lament.
This feels like a book that needs to be written, but really, it is a song, waiting to be sung. A song of grace and praise for Him who is Enough.
This feels like a pop bottle ready to spew and thus is frightening. But this is more like the Northern Lights. Bursting. Unexpected. Startling.
I am the one who chooses, who decides. Write a book with angst and worry as my companions? Or, listen carefully, willing to obey, His slightest command. To write or sing His song of praise. The fizzy pop bottle was yesterday. Today, I choose the glory of Northern Lights.