My Western Sky

As most of you know from my sentimental Facebook posts, we dropped Landry off at Camp Cho-Yeh yesterday. For six days, she will be camper in the piney woods of East Texas; she will make new friends, sing silly songs, get really dirty, all while learning more about Jesus Christ and His crazy-big love for her. Sounds like a fantastic way for a 10-year-old to spend a week of Summer. We were well-prepared for the camp drop-off procedures not just because Barbie works there but because Cho-Yeh has been superb in their communication and preparation with parents. As we dropped off her trunk, and she got signed in (complete with temperature and lice check!), I tried not to think about what was coming--the saying good-bye part. We felt a bit like celebrities when people realized who we were, "You're the Bailey Family! You're Barbie's Bailey Family! We feel like we know you!" It made me so grateful to God. Landry wouldn't be at Camp Cho-Yeh if it weren't for Ba

I know that I'm not the tattoo type of girl. In fact, I started taking pleasure in the "WHAT??!!!" of my friends when I casually mentioned that I was thinking of getting one. Nothing like causing a little shock and awe. But instead of deterring me, their reactions made me want one even more. The major lesson I've learned in my 30s: Be the true person that I am rather than the one people expect me to be. And people don't expect me, the sweet little librarian, to get tatted up. I totally get that. And the funny thing is that I never expected it either. My deep disdain for tattoos started with my clean-cut-baseball-player-of-a-high-school boyfriend. For the sake of anonymity, I will call him Bif-with-one-f. (Those who know my history will understand the significance of this name and will probably chuckle.) When Bif turned 18, he marched straight down to Deep Ellum and got Casper the Friendly Ghost tattooed on his left bicep. Yes. Casper. The. Freakin'. Friend