The Stopper Bottle

Like a perfume bottle sitting too long without use, stopper stuck with remnants of loveliness, I have sat, waiting. Oh, the aroma is still ensconced within. Resting upon the dresser, nestled amongst the clutter, the liquid shimmers, calling.
A time or two the dainty jar has been tipped upon its side, eager to be released. Hoping, this time, to be effectual, worthy. Disappointment, and inadequacy, become my rallying friends, as the vial is righted once more, leaking only a drop. Or two.
I dwell in constant ineffiancy, berating my lack and weakness. "It must be my shape. It is not inviting enough." ; "It must be my contents are useless. " These are the songs I sing, knowing it is All. My. Fault. I am sure this bottle is labeled with a sticker, glaring: Failure.
I assume, that it is all up to me, to figure out who needs my scent the most. I settle, slightly uncomfortable, into the space of needing to perform, flawlessly.
It is not enough to be used, a mere drip at a time. That would be proof of my inadequacy. No, I must be poured out, liberally, in order to shelter my significance.
Thus I have perched upon the bureau as days careened into years. Longing to pour my words across the white, liberally spreading my heart out as jam upon my morning toast.
Until a morning, bright with hope.
I had noted how vital it was for me to be an author. Of words and rhythms and lines. I had cried out, with longing, knowing that this was a part of who I am. How I needed to do this task, well. Well, was defined as published. As in an entire book. Otherwise, I must give up, as I was useless. I would never be fulfilled.
Into this scenario, walked my Best. He listened carefully, thoughtfully. He commented on the power, the beauty found in these strings of letters. And then he asked a question. A simple question, really.
"Why do you need to write, in order to be published? Why can't you write for the joy of it or simply because God has asked you to?"
Why, indeed.
With those few words, the stopper was removed. Letters and lines liberally poured across the page. The perfume of those hours was sweet to my soul. Realizing that I had been the one holding tightly to the stopper from within, I had been set free, to be who I am created to be. It no longer mattered whether  I dripped or poured. The point was, I was scenting the air around me. Fulfilling my purpose. If others were enticed, or lingered to relish the aroma wafting about, it no longer mattered. I was spicing the air with the fragrance God had designed.
And He was pleased with the gift.