Lynn Austin's Blog, page 14

Apple Pie and Other Treasures

It was supposed to be a fun excursion to do research for my next book, but icy rain poured from the winter sky as our friends, Paul and Jacki, drove my husband and me through the Michigan countryside.  Paul is a lifelong resident of Western Michigan and knows just about every back road and fun, out-of-the-way place on the map—and a few places that aren’t on the map. “I want to show you something,” he said, as we pulled into a little town I’d never heard of. “Do you like pies?”

Of course! Who doesn’t? We drove past humble houses, down streets without traffic lights or sidewalks, and pulled into the driveway of a small, unassuming, brick home. The garage door stood open but there weren’t any cars in it, only a nice-looking riding lawn mower and the usual clutter found in most garages, hanging from hooks and heaped around the perimeter. “Who lives here?” I asked.

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know.”

We piled out of the car and dashed through the rain into the open garage. I like to think of myself as adventurous but walking into a stranger’s untended garage, uninvited, seemed odd. I expected the door leading into the house to open at any moment and for the owner to ask us what we were doing.

Two huge, ancient-looking chest freezers stood along the rear wall of the garage. Paul opened the lid of one and asked, “What kind of pie do you like? There’s apple, cherry, blueberry, pecan . . . Ooo, and homemade apple dumplings!” A hand-lettered sign listed the prices. A battered cardboard box collected the money on the honor system. “We’ve had these pies before,” Paul said. “You just take them home and bake them. They’re delicious.”

He explained that this was a fund-raising effort on behalf of a local church. The women gathered together every so often like an old-fashioned quilting bee and spent the day baking in the church kitchen. The finished pies were sold out of this garage. I glanced around but didn’t see any security cameras. The entire endeavor operated on trust, and had become well-known in the community and surrounding area. Everyone for miles around knew where the small, brick house was, and that the garage door would always be open. The freezers would always be filled with pies. The cardboard moneybox would be waiting.

I felt like I’d stepped back through time into a kinder, gentler era. “I don’t believe it!” I said. “Who does this kind of thing?” Until two years ago, I lived in the Chicago area along with six million other people. This pie-selling setup would never work there. No one would ever agree to leave their garage door open all day, and their lawnmower and other household goods unguarded, with only a flimsy door leading into their home—not to mention leaving several hundred dollars-worth of pies in unlocked freezers. And with soaring energy costs, no one would ever volunteer to pay the electric bill for two huge, non-energy-efficient freezers.

So, what sort of people would ever be this generous, this trusting?

People who had faith in God and wanted to support their church. People who put serving Him ahead of their material possessions. People who trusted that even if the worst happened and thieves broke in their home, God would somehow use the situation for His glory. People who believed that their “neighbors” included strangers they’d never met who might be in need of a pie.

Jesus said, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven . . . For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” I’m guessing these trusting, pie-selling homeowners will have a whole pile of treasure waiting for them in heaven.

We chose a plumb an apple pie and put a $10 dollar bill in the money box. It turned out, Paul was right—the pie was delicious!

The Secret

The fairy-tale-themed wedding was lovely. My husband’s nephew and his bride made a beautiful couple. Afterwards at the reception, the DJ invited the bride and groom and all the other married couples out onto the dance floor for a Generations Dance. It was crowded at first, but each time the DJ called out an anniversary—five years, 10 years, and so on—couples who had been married for only that length of time had to sit down. At last, only the bride and groom and the longest-married couple remained. I was surprised to find that Ken and I had won. We’ve been married for more than 46 years.

The DJ handed us a microphone and asked us to tell the new bride and groom the secret of our long, happy marriage. I’m not sure how I replied, having no time to prepare. But I’ve thought about it a lot since then and here are two of our “secrets.”

The most important one is to build your marriage on the foundation of Christ. There’s a very good reason why scripture tells us not to be unequally yoked with a non-believer—it’s because it doesn’t work. Since a Christian’s life-goal is to love and serve and glorify God, marriage becomes very difficult when your partner has a conflicting goal. What’s more, a successful marriage is going to require grace and forgiveness many times over, and this doesn’t come naturally to us. We learn what true love and forgiveness really are from God, who continues to love us in spite of our stupid mistakes, and who forgives us at great cost. The secret of a happy marriage is to follow His example and love each other sacrificially.

Ken and I were fresh out of college when we married, and we each had dreams and goals for our lives. The first goal for Ken was a graduate degree at Yale University, so I postponed my dreams for a few years and worked to support us. His bigger dream was to play full-time in a symphony orchestra, and so after graduation when he won a position as principal trumpet in the National Symphony Orchestra in Bogota, Colombia, we left family and friends to move to South America. We did the same thing a few years later when Ken won principal trumpet in the orchestra in Thunder Bay, Ontario and later in Winnipeg, Manitoba for a total of eleven years of Canadian winters.

In the meantime our family was growing, and my first dream was to be a stay-at-home mom to our children. Ken took several jobs in addition to the orchestra so I wouldn’t have to work outside the home—teaching, music minister at a church, and even playing in a dance band until the wee hours of the morning. When I began to pursue my dream of writing, Ken immediately became my greatest advocate and cheerleader. I’ll never forget the day he brought home our first computer—an expense we couldn’t afford. I hadn’t published a single word, but he told me he believed I would become a great writer, someday.

And so my second secret to a long and happy marriage is to take time to prayerfully plan and dream together. Then do everything you can and sacrifice whenever you can, to help your partner fulfill those dreams. Thanks, Ken, for 46 wonderful years. It has been an amazing adventure!

10 Things You Might Not Know About Lynn Austin

I grew up in New York State in the Hudson Valley about 60 miles north of New York City. As the middle sister of three, I’m blessed to have two built-in, lifelong, best friends.
I was a huge fan of the Beatles as a teenager and heard them perform in person twice—once in Atlantic City, and once in Shea Stadium in NYC. The stadium held 56,000 screaming Beatles’ fans and afterward it seemed like most of them were trying to board the same subway train home that I was. I was nearly crushed to death but it was worth it, of course.
I left New York to go to Hope College in Michigan where I met my husband Ken. He was a music major and I was struggling through a required music history/appreciation course. He offered to tutor me—and we fell in love. I got an A in the course.
The summer before we married, I worked as an attendant in a mental institution. I was a psychology major in college and wanted some practical experience. Well, I got plenty of it!—along with some valuable insights that help me create realistic characters.
I worked as the secretary to the Dean of Students at Yale while Ken was earning his Master’s degree there. At the time, I had no idea that all the typing I did every day would be good practice for being a writer.
A year after we were married, Ken got a summer job performing with the Alaska Festival of Music. We decided to drive from Connecticut to Anchorage in our tiny, two-seater sports car. Being poor students, we camped out along the way in an army-surplus pup tent and cooked our meals on a propane stove.
After Ken graduated, he won a job performing with the National Symphony Orchestra in Bogota, Colombia. I taught 4th grade in a Colombian school for a year until our son Joshua was born. I do NOT recommend giving birth for the first time in a foreign language! By the time they laid Josh in my arms, I was so confused I started talking to him in Spanish. Ken said, “What are you doing, Lynn? He speaks English!”
Our son Ben was born in Canada when Ken performed with the Thunder Bay Symphony in Ontario and our daughter Maya was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba when Ken played in the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra. At least they spoke English in Canada! All three of our children have dual-citizenship.
To research my first novel, “Gods and Kings,” I lived in Israel for a month and volunteered on an archaeological dig. Our son Josh, who was 14, went with me. His dream was to uncover a skull—he and his site team found an entire skeleton!
You may have figured out by now that Ken and I love travel and adventure. We have always kept active, whether it’s skiing (downhill and cross-country), backpacking, hiking in the mountains, and now cycling. We just returned from a 2 ½ week trip to Florida where we pedaled a total of 220 miles. The exercise makes up for all the hours I spend sitting at my desk.

So, do you share any similarities with my crazy life? Any Beatles fans out there? I would love to hear from you!

The End

Typing “The End” at the end of a manuscript is one of my most satisfying moments as a writer. It comes after months of sitting at my desk and writing page after page of words. A few days ago, I typed “The End” after completing my latest novel, 461 pages and 141,042 words long. It felt wonderful! By the time you read this, I will have given the novel a final edit from start to finish and sent it off to my editor.

Now what? I plan to read books in front of my fireplace, visit with friends and family, watch old movies, and go on a vacation someplace warm.

But that won’t really be “The End” of this novel—although I wish it were! When I return from vacation, I’ll find a letter from my editor with suggested changes for improvement. I have to admit that I dread this stage of the writing process the most. I’m always convinced that my novel is perfect—The End! My editor often says otherwise. I’ll spend the next month or so hashing over these suggested changes with him and re-working the parts that may need improvement. Once again, I’ll type “The End.”

But it won’t be.

A few months later my editor will send me a copy of my novel showing all of his editorial changes. That will be my last opportunity to edit the book myself. I’ll see it again in the form of Page Proofs, showing how the typeset words will appear on the printed page, and it will be my job to read through it for typos and other minor errors. My novel will finally become a printed book in October of 2017. Don’t ask me why it takes so long for my publishers to get to “The End” of their job. It baffles me.

By the time I hold my novel in my hands nine months from now, the euphoria I felt a few days ago when I typed “The End” will be a distant memory. I will have started the writing process all over again—coming up with an idea, researching it, creating new characters, sitting down at my computer five days a week and writing. “The End” of that book will be months away. The author of Ecclesiastes was right when he said, “Of making many books there is no end.”

One of the most stressful times for me will come next fall when this newest novel will be published. I always pray that readers will enjoy my stories and be blessed by them, and so waiting to hear from them is agonizing. Receiving an e-mail from a satisfied reader is the greatest moment of all. Only then, when readers are laughing and crying along with my characters can I finally feel the satisfaction of coming, at last, to “The End.”

When I reach “The End” of my life someday, I imagine that meeting Jesus and hearing Him say, “Well done good and faithful servant,” will be even more satisfying than finishing a novel. In the meantime, I have a lot of writing and re-writing to do to the story of my life, and lots of changes to make. I pray that with His help, I write it well.

Different

The young man who stood alone on the pier, gazing out at Lake Michigan was different from me in many ways—his age, his ethnicity, and his style of clothing, to name a few. But like me, he obviously had come to the beach on this warm, fall afternoon to enjoy the gorgeous day and picturesque view.  Because I’m a shy, quiet person, it never occurred to me to speak with him. But my girlfriend Cathy is naturally friendly, and she struck up a conversation with him. I decided to step out of my comfort zone and join in.

Earlier that morning in church, our pastor had encouraged us to stop looking at the things that divide us—our political views, our economic status, our religion, our gender, sexual orientation, race and ethnicity—and learn to see the Imago Dei, the image of God, in the people around us. After a political season that left our country fractured and angry, the pastor challenged us to be peacemakers, bringing shalom and “wholeness” to our little corner of the world, one person at a time.

And so in spite of my discomfort, I began talking with “Jason.” I quickly learned that he didn’t fit any of the stereotypes that I had assumed from his outward appearance. In a warm, soft-spoken voice, “Jason” told us that he was new in town and hadn’t made many friends, yet. He had moved here from a huge city because he wanted a different life from the one he’d been living, and a new start. He now had a good job as a restaurant manager, and a nice apartment. And he loved coming here to the beach to watch the ever-changing lake. We enjoyed a pleasant conversation and warm laughter then went our separate ways. I would like to think that as we spoke, any stereotypes he may have had of me were shattered, as well. Because as different as Jason and I are, we’re also the same in the most important way of all—beloved by God.

It’s not a New Year’s resolution as much as a “new life” resolution, but I pray that I’ll approach people differently in the year ahead. Talking with Jason gave me a tiny taste of how wonderful it is to see people as individuals, not in categories. It makes me wonder how many other “Jasons” are all around me who I’ve unfairly characterized as “different.” And while I don’t plan on making it a habit to strike up conversations with strangers on the beach, I do plan to look at how much alike the people around me are instead of noticing our differences. I want to be a peacemaker, bringing shalom and wholeness wherever I go, one person, one conversation at a time. Imagine how the world could be healed if each of us did the same?

 

 

Dad and Charlie

Charlie is in the middle with his arm around Ken in the Cub Scout uniform

My husband Ken had a best friend growing up named Charlie. In a time when kids rode bicycles all over town, explored down by the creek, and played outside until the stars came out, Ken and Charlie did it all together. They were in the same Cub Scout Troop, attended the same elementary school, built model cars together. When Ken’s dad took him fishing and on overnight camping trips in the woods, Charlie came, too. Those trips became even more meaningful after Charlie’s dad died at a young age.

The best friends lost touch after they graduated from high school and went to different colleges. But when Ken attended his high school reunion this year—his first ever—there was Charlie, also attending his first reunion. It’s amazing how much these two men still have in common, and how they’ve bonded again as if the years had never passed. Then Charlie told us a story that touched my heart.

When he was fourteen, Charlie gave his life to Christ. His youth leader told him to think of a special person who didn’t know the Lord, and make a commitment to pray for him every single day. Charlie chose Ken’s dad.

Dad with our son Joshua

Dad was a kind, gentle man who worked as a master woodcarver for an upscale furniture company most of his life. His parents divorced when he was young, and being poor, he didn’t fit in or feel welcome among church-going people. He left school after the eighth grade and went to work to help support his mother and sister. Even after he married and had six children of his own—my husband being the youngest—Dad never did feel comfortable enough or “good” enough to attend church. He was a wonderful, loving father in every way, which is why his family, and “adopted” family members like Charlie, loved him so much. But he never said a word about faith in God.

It’s so hard to find a way to talk to our closest family members about our faith and our need for Christ. We get together every year at holidays like Christmas, and we want so badly to lead our loved ones to Jesus—and we just can’t seem to find a way or the words to do it. And so the years pass, and we always hope there will be a better time, an easier way to say what’s on our heart. And much too often, the end comes before we ever have a chance.

Charlie faithfully prayed for Dad every single day—all through his college years, all through the years that he and his wife were raising their family. He moved to a different city, and he and Ken weren’t in touch any more, but he continued to pray, wondering if his prayers had ever been answered.

Before he died at age 82, Dad went into the hospital for the last time. Charlie’s mother happened to work in the same hospital and, remembering him from their days as neighbors, went up to his room to see him. She asked how he was doing, and Dad said, “I’m at peace. I’ve given my life to Jesus, and I’m at peace.” Charlie’s prayers had been answered at last.

This Christmas season, Charlie’s story challenges me to do two things. First, to never, ever, stop praying for family members to give their lives to Christ, no matter how long it takes. I’m praying that I’ll find the right opportunity this Christmas, and the right words to say in a loving way. And second, I’m challenged to make a commitment, like Charlie did, to faithfully pray for someone who has touched my life, even if I may never know if or when those prayers are answered.

But I do know that we’ll see Dad in heaven, someday. And for that assurance, I say, “Thank you, Jesus.” And thank you Charlie.

Tea Time

It’s getting down to the wire. Christmas is coming and so is my book deadline. Right about now I get tend to discouraged, wondering if this book I’m racing to finish is any good, and if so, what the ending should be. I’m putting in long hours in my office, while at the same time, I’m conscious of Christ’s advent and unwilling to let the celebration pass me by. My friend Jacki had the perfect solution to both dilemmas. “Let’s have a tea party and invite some of your readers. And so last Thursday, we did.

Seeing Jacki and Paul’s house beautifully decorated for the season helped me relax and move into the season with thanksgiving for the gift of God’s Son. And the new friends I met gave me the encouragement I needed in my sprint to the finish line. “Wear something fun,” Jacki told the ladies she invited. Or bring a teacup or other item with memories. Three young sisters, Emma, Lauren and Sophie wore vintage dresses that young Emma had sewn all by herself. What talent! We decided that Emma’s outfit and darling hat made her look like the model on the cover of my book, “Wonderland Creek.” Sophie (and her doll) looked as though they had just stepped off the cover of “All Things New.” And Lauren, with her cute dress and vintage shoes, could have posed for “A Woman’s Place.”

Jacki and Deb wore their mothers’ fur wraps that were all the rage in the 1940s. Several ladies brought their favorite teacups, including one from a British antique shop that commemorated Queen Elizabeth’s coronation in 1953.

We asked the ladies to share some of their memories and stories with me (I never know when I might need a good story for a future novel), and I ended up hearing several very touching ones, including the Hallmark-worthy tale of how Maria met her husband, and how Norma’s father paid a surprise visit home during wartime. I would tell you the details but I just might steal them for my next novel, and I would hate to spoil it for you.

We all had a wonderful time, and I came home singing Christmas Carols and ready to add heart and love and wonder to the final chapters of my novel. So, thanks for sharing a cup of tea with me, ladies. And for reminding me what Christmas—and my novels—are all about.

A Boxful of Love

This year, our church was one of the drop-off points for “Operation Christmas Child,” which is run by the international relief organization, Samaritan’s Purse. Every year at this time, volunteers from all over the United States pack special shoe boxes with simple children’s gifts, which will then be used around the world as powerful evangelism tools with children and their families. Sometimes one of these shoe boxes, packed with love, is the first gift a child ever receives.

My job, along with my husband and our friends Paul and Jacki Kleinheksel, was to man the drop-off center for a few hours as people from our community brought in their filled boxes. We recorded the donations, wrapped rubber bands around the boxes to secure them, and packed them into shipping containers.

One kind gentleman from the community brought in 52 boxes. For the past year, every time he and his wife did their weekly grocery shopping, he faithfully purchased items to fill one box. By budgeting a small weekly amount, he filled enough shoe boxes to bless 52 children.

Another delivery was from a student representative at nearby Hope College. Her car was stuffed with 128 boxes that the college students had filled. “There are more boxes coming,” she said, “but this is all I could fit in my car.” It amazed me that busy college students, many of whom probably live on a tight budget, had donated their time and resources to help bring Christ’s love to needy children around the world.

But the highlight of my evening was a young family with three small children, who delivered five boxes, one from each of them. The children beamed with excitement as they told us how they had gone shopping with their mom and picked out the items for their box all by themselves, choosing things they knew a child their age would enjoy. What a beautiful way for these parents to teach their children the joy of giving to others, especially at a time of year when children might be thinking only of themselves.

One of our jobs was to pray with the people who dropped off their boxes, asking God to bless the children who would receive them. I had tears in my eyes as the young mom and dad and their three little ones bowed their heads and prayed with us for “their” children, whose lives may be forever changed. And then, when I thought the moment couldn’t possibly get any sweeter, the littlest boy looked up at us and said, “Know what? I gave my life to Jesus this week!” The angels in heaven were surely having a party!

It truly is more blessed to give than to receive. On the night before He was crucified, Jesus took off his robe and knelt down to wash His disciples’ feet. He told them, “I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.” He wants us to serve each other. He finished by saying, “Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.”

Jesus was right. I was richly blessed that night!

Is there a special way you and your family will share the love of Christ this Christmas season? I would love to hear your ideas!

If you would like to help Samaritan’s Purse deliver Christmas boxes all over the world, click here to donate. Or visit them at www.samaritanspurse.org

Open to the Sky

Last month, we celebrated the Feast of Sukkot with our Jewish friends and family members. One of my favorite things about the holiday is building and decorating a Sukkah or booth on our back deck. First, we constructed a frame out of two-by-fours then enclosed three of the sides using tarps. Next comes the fun part—decorating it with natural materials such as cornstalks, cat-tails, and pine boughs. We had cuttings of mint and Russian sage from our garden this year, which made the inside smell wonderful! Last came the homey touches—adding a tablecloth and napkins, candles, hanging lanterns, even pictures. This year the weather cooperated and we were able to eat all our meals in this outdoor booth without getting rained on or bundling up in countless sweaters.

The Jewish people live in booths to remember how God watched over them and protected them and provided all their needs while they wandered in the wilderness for forty years. And so one of the “rules” for creating an authentic sukkah is that the roof cannot be totally enclosed. You’re supposed to be able to see the sky and the stars overhead when you look up, and remember that God is watching over you. He’s got you covered.

The Feast of Sukkot (sometimes called the Feast of Tabernacles) is one of the three yearly feasts that the Jewish people were commanded by God to celebrate. It comes at the end of the agricultural year and, like our Thanksgiving Day, celebrates the harvest. We know from the Gospel of John chapter 7 that Jesus obeyed the commandment and went up to Jerusalem to celebrate the feast with His disciples.

I find it interesting that God made celebrating Sukkot a commandment. That’s how important He thought it was that His people take time to stop and remember everything He has done for us. To remember how He has provided everything we need—including a bountiful harvest. In the description of the feast in Leviticus God says several times to cease working! This is a day of rest! You shall do no work! It’s an act of trust. We can stop working—He has us covered.

As the Feast of Sukkot approached this year, I was already behind on writing my latest novel. I couldn’t afford to stop working for the holiday. Besides, I’m no longer bound by the Old Testament Law, am I? Yet I really wanted to spend time with my family and friends! In my daily devotions, I happened to be reading the book Rhythms of Rest: Finding the Spirit of Sabbath in a Busy World by Shelly Miller. She teaches that one of the reasons we stop work and rest as God commanded is as an act of trust. We need to remind ourselves that the world won’t stop spinning if we take a day of rest from our work. God has everything under control. In other words, instead of looking frantically around at all the things we need to do, we need to look up! There is no limit on His ability to supply all of our needs if we simply trust and obey—the way the Israelites did when they lived in tents in the wilderness. I can rest and trust. So I turned off my computer for five days while our family was here, and I celebrated this feast of joy. And guess what? When I added up my page count at the end of the month, I had completed even more pages than the quota I had assigned myself.

I wonder what would happen if I lived each day of the year this way? If, instead of trying to keep all of my many plates spinning like a circus juggler, I remembered that God commands me to rest for my own good. He offers rest as a precious gift. I can almost imagine Jesus sitting in a sukkah with His disciples, looking up at the open sky and saying, “Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!”

New Technology

I’m not a tech-savvy person. I like to sit down at my computer and write without having to figure out a bunch of new features and updates. When I can’t find what I need quickly, I get crabby. That’s when I take a deep breath and look up at my office bookshelves where I have two items that help me keep things in perspective. The first is this antique typewriter:

I began writing my first novel on a manual typewriter—not as old as this one, but a portable one that I had in college. If I made a typo or I wanted to change something, I brushed White-Out over the error, waited for it to dry, then typed over the newly-painted spot. If I wanted to edit or improve something it meant re-typing the entire chapter. Then I discovered Correct-Type strips that could make errors disappear. These were okay to use for a spot or two, but too many corrections made the page look messy. Then came erasable typing paper—but that was too expensive to use for an entire novel and the ink tended to smear if I wasn’t careful.

After working on my first novel for about a year, my husband surprised me with an electric typewriter with auto-correct. If I typed backwards over the mistake, the correction tape would erase it. Genius! Plus, I could write faster since I no longer had to pound on a manual keyboard.

My husband has always believed in me (even when I doubted myself), so we were among the first households to switch to a computer—a clunky Atari with 3 ½ inch discs. Typos and errors were easy to fix and I could print out flawless copies on my dot-matrix printer. Now my mistakes and frustrations became technological ones as I struggled to learn how to use these new machines. But my writing improved exponentially because it was easy to make edits and improvements. I now own a laptop computer as well as a desktop, which gives me the freedom to write anywhere.

In spite of these updates, I still get frustrated. That’s when I glance up at the antique typewriter on my shelf and say to myself, “It could always be worse.” If that doesn’t work, I look up at another shelf and see this:

Yes, it’s an old-fashioned quill pen and inkwell. I try to imagine William Shakespeare’s frustration as he wrestled with drippy ink and fussy quills. Or the patience required by the Bible’s authors who scratched out their books on parchment scrolls. Compared to them, I guess I have it pretty good.

I’m often tempted to look back with nostalgia at the “good old days,” especially when I see changes in the world that frighten me. It’s easy to forget that in those “good old days” my family owned only one car (which my dad drove to work, forcing us to walk everywhere); we had no dishwasher (which meant we had to wash all the dishes, 365 days a year); our clothes dryer was the sun and a clothesline in the backyard; and our telephone was attached to the kitchen wall. I long to return to those “good old days” about as much as I long to write my next book on my antique typewriter!

I’m learning that change isn’t always bad. In fact, God built it into the universe. That’s obvious from looking at the trees outside my office window. So the question is, am I allowing God to use the changes in my life—the bad ones as well as the good ones—to transform me into the person He wants me to be? Am I changing for the better, or becoming a grouch who hates change? As summer ends and I see the harvest all around me, I should to be bearing fruit, too—spiritual fruit like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control (Galatians 5:22). I need God to update me into a new-improved version. Because if I don’t, I have a feeling my life will be as frustrating as writing a novel with a quill pen.