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This photo above is three and a half years old. It’s a picture of our son, Rory John Elijah being delivered by C-section. It’s a picture of giving birth to something new. It’s bloody, messy, painful and awesome.
This photo above is also three and a half years old. It’s Rory all cleaned up. It’s a picture of something new. New things are clean, fresh, unspoilt and pure.
There is a great difference between new things and giving birth to new things. Many of us want to enjoy new things, but few are willing to give birth to new things. Many enjoy holding and cuddling babies, few want to go through labor.
Christians are those who are ushering in the Kingdom. It’s more than simply observing it happen. We believe, pray, work, labor, urge, encourage, risk and lay down our lives. Of course, everything we do is totally secondary to the real work of ushering in the Kingdom that has already been accomplished by Christ’s death and resurrection, but that’s not to say we don’t have a responsive responsibility.
In 2012 I’m looking forward to seeing more of the Kingdom come to bear upon our corner of the world in Singapore. I don’t just want to enjoy the newness, I want to help usher it in.
So yesterday I was reading on my bed when Rory comes in and tells me he wants to show me a magic trick … Abracadabra and all!
Well on Tuesday the 15th March our third child and second daughter, Kate Grace Murphy was born. Tyra is so excited to have a little sister as you can see from the photo below. We thank God for a healthy and cute kid! Trusting He will give us the grace to raise her well. May she run in the path of his commands, for He will set her heart free (Ps 119)
One of the steamboats
On Friday we had our Community Group (and some visitors) over for Chinese New Year steamboat. We had so many people we had to do three steamboats in different spots in the house. Guoyuan and Joanne Tay did a fantastic job with Xingying and Tarryn to provide customary CNY treats. The menu included abalone, fishballs, pigs heart, chicken, beef, pork, liver, prawns, pork belly, fish kailan, etc etc!
Guys starting to arrive
We are excited that Tarryn is pregnant! We were both keen to have three kids, having both come from families with three. The due date is end of March next year, when Rory turns 3, and Tyra will be a few months before her 5th birthday. Now feels like the right time, and we are grateful to God who’s blessed us with this as-yet-unborn child. We are praying for his / her health, as well as Tarryn’s!
This is my daughter and her Singlish.. thanks to her kindergarden.. and yes, this is not put on, she is how she talks!
And another:
This piece was written by my brother, Drew Murphy, in regard to prostitution in South East Asia.
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There she is over there! Look at her, the filthy rubbish. Her and the others like her, bringing shame to our streets and to our city. It wasn’t always like this you know? Oh no! One could walk the streets at night, listening to the rustle of the leaves, watching the stars flicker in the blanket sky, but not now, oh no! Things have changed. Look at them! They’re all over the place, there seems to be one on every street corner these days. They infect our society with their vile and filth. They’re a disgrace, a stain on society. Unfortunately there seems to be more and more of them as time goes on. What kind of worthless being engages in such activity? How can you have absolutely no sense of moral guiding?! How could you choose to sell yourself, your body, your soul? You degrade yourself to that of a commodity, a tool to be used and consumed. These people have no morals! They have no shame. Prostitutes, whores, vermin! That’s what they are, vermin of the underworld – crawling out of their shabby little holes under the cover of darkness. They’re probably all drug addicts as well. They truly are the stain of society. What a horror. What a disgrace!
She stands on the sidewalk, the wind abrasive against her fragile face. Her arms are folded, wrapped tightly around her broken body, her broken soul. Anxiously she waits. How long will tonight be? Her blonde hair and blue eyes, the traits so often envied by many, have helped her stand out amongst her colleagues. ‘Helped’ – what a deceptive word! Why did beauty have to be such a curse? She paints her face and shapes her hair, her eyes are heavy, her heart, bare. Headlights in the distance, approaching. Here we go again! Her heart drops – or what’s left of it at least. The car slows as it approaches, its the usual routine. Whose it this time? She wonders. A wealthy doctor, tired of the routine? Or an upstanding politician, who dare not be seen? Perhaps it’s a loving husband, a father of three. She’s had a few of those before! Which monster is it tonight?
Men. Pigs. Monsters. Beasts. She makes no distinction, she’s known nothing else. From her drunken father, making love to his Whisky and Coke and beating her for sport to the hundreds of nameless faces that come to her for her body, all men are the same. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the shop window to her right. All the makeup, the high heels and flashy clothes, the hair done up and the perfume, its just a thin fa=E7ade – barely covering her broken soul and crushed spirit. She is able to offer what the clients want – her physical self, but she can’t offer anything more. No emotions, no love, no soul or life. She’s an empty shell, only her body lives. On the inside, death has taken residence.
A gust of the icy November wind sends a chill throughout her body. The car has already driven off. No deal this time. She’s torn between relief and the reality that valuable income has driven off. Soon she will have to go back upstairs to shoot up again, the pain is increasing again. Across the street beneath the orange street lamps a mother hurriedly walks with her young daughter. She looks at the pair with some surprise – not a usual sight in these parts, at this sort of time of night. The little girl looks over towards her, but the mother quickly pulls her along, softly but sternly discouraging her daughter to look that way.
This scene spurs memories in her own mind about her childhood, her mother. It seems like an eternity since she was wearing the coloured dresses, playing with friends and dreaming about the prince who would one day choose her to be his princess. But those are all forgotten and distant dreams – life is quite the opposite for her now. All she has are slutty outfits, a group of acquaintances and a continuous stream of filthy perverts who seek to pleasure themselves at her expense. There will be no white dress as she walks down the aisle to the man of
her dreams waiting for her. No loving man who takes pleasure in delighting her and making her his queen.
She knows how society perceives her. She knows what people think. The judging glares and condemning stares are a part of her life. She and the others like her are the ‘stains’ on society. She knows that is what people see her as – an inevitable evil. If only they would get off their high horses and perhaps try and find out who she is and not only look at what she does. Never before has an occupation been the defining point of a person as much as it is with prostitution. She didn’t ‘choose’ this work. She didn’t lie on the lawn outside as a young girl dreaming of the day she could parade the streets at night and degrade herself to the point of worthlessness. She doesn’t wake up each day loving life and looking forward to another night’s work. She hates every one of her ‘customers’ who legally rape her. She hates the pimp who takes his share of her earnings. She hates the cops her throw in jail for illegal activity, but leave the clients to return home to their unsuspecting wives untouched. They are the real perpetrators of
this trade. She hates her father for beating her, destroying their family, forcing her to turn to the most instinctive form of survival. She hates the people who glare at her, curse and then walk on. They’re so quick to dismiss – generalising and stereotyping. She hates the ones who beat her with the book and act as though they were always blameless and pure. She hates the spiral she can’t escape from. Drugs to ease the pain, sex to pay for the drugs. It’s a chain around her ankles, holding her under as she gasps for breath. She hates herself for what she is. She hates herself for what she’s not.
When will we stop and think without making assumptions. When will we stretch out a helping hand instead of dishing out judging glares? Walking on by has never been easier; extending a hand never more needed.
drew murphy 2009
