Maybe it’s OK for me to enjoy this controversial holiday.

I love Halloween. It’s long been my absolute favorite holiday.

I know, my favorite should be Christmas or Easter, when we celebrate Jesus and our salvation. Or even Thanksgiving, when we're grateful for all God's gifts to us. Yet I choose Halloween, the "Devil's holiday."

My love of Halloween began with sweet childhood experiences. Every year, I wore a Mom-made costume. As a toddler, I was a pink bunny in footed pajamas. Mom sewed fabric ears and used a wire hanger to make them stand up. She used her eyeliner to draw whiskers on my face. My brother, Mike, was a hobo (as were half the kids in our neighborhood). Mom used petroleum jelly to stick coffee grinds to Mike's face, creating a stubbly “beard” on his eight-year-old chin. I still smile when I look at the picture of us, me proudly showing off my bunny suit, Mike scowling about the strong coffee smell.

Why do I let criticism affect my self-worth?

I keep waiting for my skin to get thicker. I mean, I’m 41 and 1/2 years old. I should have enough confidence in myself by now to prevent criticism from bothering me. But I don’t. No matter what people criticize—my work, my parenting, my hair, my driving, my marriage—their harsh words hit me in the gut.

I don’t know many women who do handle criticism well. Most of my male friends seem able to let it roll off them. We women, however, tend not only to bristle under it, but to actually snatch criticism out of the most benign encounters. Some of us are so sensitive, we find critical comments even when they aren’t there.

Glimpses of the Great I Am

Last week in my advanced grammar class, I explained to my students that to be isn't always a linking verb. We looked at a pair of sentences: I think. Therefore, I am.

“They’re grammatically identical,” I said. “Subject + verb. I am simply means I exist.”

Days later, I’m in church waiting for a renovations discussion to morph into the worship service proper. It’s a new church for my family. We sit in our pew, my husband, Kris, pretending interest in the building plans, our daughter Lulu folding a church bulletin into a paper airplane I fear she’ll sail any second over the people in front of us. Our other daughter, Charlotte, studiously copies into her journal scriptural names for God from an enormous banner covering the front wall.

Forgiveness tastes so good.

Recently, a woman I’ll call Jill wrote me after reading my book about being unequally yoked, When He Doesn’t Believe (WaterBrook). She’d grown up in a Christian family, had always been involved at church, and had had a vibrant faith. But then she moved thousands of miles from home for college and, well …

It’s a common story: Girl stops going to church, stops feeding her soul and spirit, and meets boy. The boy isn’t a Christian, but he’s awfully cute and so nice, and they get married.

Then the girl starts longing for Jesus and returns to her faith, and the boy is indifferent or antagonistic. Either way, the girl feels lonely, confused, scared—and guilty.