Every child is different. Ally is easily my most challenging child. We're not alike. She's artistic and creative. I'm not. She's a roller coaster of emotions. My feelings tend to be more akin to a train ride in across Kansas. We have a few commonalities: overly sarcastic, smart mouth, good looking, humble; but by and large, we're very different.

It's Halloween, which means it's time to talk about being scared.

Greed motivates some. Power motivates others. A quest for good and decency may motivate some. Still, Fear is the greatest motivator of all.

Exhibit A. Watch the news. Yes, the age old adage, "if it bleeds it leads" continues to ring true... but it's not the gore that draws viewers; it's the fear of something happening to them or someone in their community.

Exhibit B. The Weather Channel. No one station does more to prey upon our fears. Sure, the Fox News and CNN channels try, but the Weather Channel is the Freddy Krueger of news fright with headlines like, "Hurricane Patricia is the strongest hurricane ever recorded in history," or "Snow-pocalypse 2015!"  Please. Stop.

Exhibit C. Churches are no strangers to fear tactics. Hell is an easy sell, sort of. Fire and brimstone are easy sermons. No one quite knows what "brimstone" is, but it must be bad. We don't really have a lot of great scripture to describe what Hell is (or what Heaven is, for that matter), but we know it sucks. More importantly, Hell Sells. Yes, that's right. Hell puts people in pews. People mean money. Money means preacher jobs. Want to get a few people to get baptized? Try preaching on eternal damnation at a bible camp with 12-yr olds. Fear works.

Fear is an incredibly useful emotion. It's a survival mechanism. Deep within our amgydala, our mind warns us of impending doom.

Fear motivates, but we have to tame it. We have to use fear to our advantage.

It's good to be afraid for your children, but that doesn't give you a right, nor does it make it healthy for you to become the helicopter parent.

It's good to be afraid of heights, impending storms, snakes, and even politicians with bad hair. They're all dangerous and they're all worthy of skepticism.

Don't live a life of fear. Stop worrying. Go and do. Be courageous. "fear not, for I am with you."

Sometimes, I wonder what we're fighting for.

"I'm proud of our elders," she said. "They're conservative, strong men."

This particular lady had stopped to talk to me after a recent sermon on a Sunday morning in a distant church. She, too, was from out of town, and she was kindly explaining why her home church on the coast was doing so well.

"We need more conservative leadership in our churches."

I was in my normal suit-and-tie post-preaching politician mode. Sort of. I smiled. I shook my ahead and half-hardheartedly agreed. I'm a beggar, by trade, and good beggars should be agreeable with everyone.

"Yes, conservative elders are sometimes hard to fine." (a half truth, at best)

She wouldn't stop, though. She continued her rant.

"There are just too many liberals out there."

At this point, I was ready for another conversation. There's no winning these kind of conversations. This fine woman was resolute in her opinion. I wasn't there to change them. Still, she wasn't moving along and she continued her conservative monologue.

So, I did what any good Murphy would do in that situation, I crossed the line and probably took it too far.

"I'm glad to hear they're conservative. Are they conservative on EVERY issue?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she proudly proclaimed.

"Are they conservative on their application of grace and mercy? Are they conservative with their giving to those in need? Are they conservative with their outreach and evangelism?"

She didn't even pause.

"Of course they are." She beamed.

No, really. She was absolutely certain her leadership was conservative in every aspect of the Bible. Except... I don't think she really understood my question. And, for that matter, she really didn't understand what the word "conservative" meant.

It seems that the terms Conservative and Liberal have become new fighting words. Their connotations have evolved over the past several years in the political arena. Unfortunately, that connotation has shifted to the theological arena.

This particular woman, though nice enough, was fighting for the Conservative Football Team. The Fighting Fox News NRA Reagan One Percent Tea Party Patriots. She didn't care who was playing on the team, she just knew the Conservatives were right, and perhaps more importantly, needed to win.

Truthfully, I know her church pretty well. I know their leadership. And, she's right. They are conservative. I have good friends that worship with her. And I'm proud to call them brothers and sisters in Christ.

However, I'm worried. I'm worried we spend more time fighting to win our cause rather than fighting for Christ. I'm worried we are more concerned with being right than being Christ. I'm worried churches among all denominations are struggling to survive rather than struggling to evolve.

At some point, our allegiance has to shift. We need to be part of a vibrant church, not necessarily a winning team. We need to have an active faith, not a conservative or progressive battle.

My daughter has a new man in her life.

Technically, I don't think he's really a man. He doesn't shave. He doesn't possess trade skills or a job. He doesn't really do many manly things (although I hear he's a decent soccer player). Of course, Jim, the new man, is only 12.

Still, he represents a new era.

I feel a little bit like the Lokata indian tribe leader, Kicking Bird, in Dances With Wolves. He asks Kevin Costner's character, "How many white men are coming?" and Costner responds, "Like the Stars."

I don't know the mathematical genius of Kicking Bird's character, but, undoubtedly he understood the flood gates were open. There would be a multitude of "immigrants" arriving.

Raising little girls is a much different novel than raising boys. The instruction manuals are entirely different.  For Colt, I'm secretly smiling any time he starts texting a girl. For Ally, my heart drops anytime I see her texting an evil, dirty, no-good, rotten, one-thing-on-their-mind, boy.

I could, conceivably, violate a number of South Carolina statutes and lock my 12-year old daughter in a closet for the next 5, 10, or 20 years.

Or, I could adapt.

On Monday, I drove 45 minutes to a middle school volleyball game to watch Ally play a cross-county rival. My wife, in her gentle manner, told me that Jim had traveled to the game and was sitting on the front row. Of course, my first instinct was, "Good kid, that Jim fellow... travelling to support this horrible volleyball team."  And then I realized, Jim wasn't trying to win good citizen cheerleader points, he was there to watch my daughter. Ugh.

Suddenly, those tight volleyball shorts seemed way too tight.

After the game, I walked with Ally down those long white middle school halls and she asked, "Do you want to meet Jim?"

Honestly. No.

No, I don't want to meet Jim. No, I have no interest in going face to face with the enemy. No, This was not part of my plan this morning. No, I'm not ready for you to become a mature teenager. No, I'm not ready to grow old, either.

But that's not what I replied. Instead I put the ball in her court, "Do you want me to meet Jim?"

"Yes."

"Well then, let's find Jim."

She shuttled me over to a group of junior high girls. The entire 17-member volleyball team was huddled together in their post-game celebration (they only lost the last game by 3 points... that's a win for us.)

One particular girl was chatty. She wouldn't shut up. An adult had joined their group and she hadn't even taken a breath in the last 30 seconds to interrupt her monologue on the prospects of One Direction's future. Finally, I interrupted the future sorority pledge and introduced myself to her.

"Hey. I'm Philip, Ally's dad."

She was puzzled. But she shut up. And then I extended my hand to the enemy.

"Hey, I'm Philip. Ally's dad. You must be Jim."

The enemy looked deep into my eyes and I stared deep into his soul. Time seemed to stop.

I saw fear.

The cinder block halls that are usually deafening became oddly quiet. Every other little girl on the team watched as this brave, young, boy with Bieber bangs shook a grown man's hand.

Jim's hand shake was weak. He had clearly not done this before. He was a rookie... just like me.

I thought about all the "talks" I received growing up. I once dated a daughter of a rancher. On the first date, the rancher took me outside, his boots slowly thumped across the back porch. He was basically the Marlboro Man, complete with cowboy hat, big belt buckle and all. This old cowboy was not a man of lengthy words.  He simply stated, "I just wanted you to see my backyard. It's just over 13 sections. (8500 acres, roughly) This is my shovel. They'll never find you."

At the age of 17, I did not intend to be buried in the West Texas barren dessert. I was really more hoping to be buried at sea, or perhaps a mountaintop, at the ripe age of 100. And while his daughter was incredibly friendly, she clearly did not obtain her amiable traits via genetic predisposition from her paternal side.

I'm no rancher. I don't have 13 sections of barren wasteland to hide bodies. I don't even have cool boots that thump across a gym floor.

So, here I am shaking hands with the enemy in the middle of a middle school hallway, with 17 other girls watching. The silence was deafening. Was I going to be intimidating? Was I going to be protective? Was I going to lay down the law?

Our handshake lingered and I uttered the only words I could must in that particular situation.... "Well Jim. This is awkward isn't it?"

And everyone laughed. Jim cracked a smile. I looked over my shoulder at my precious daughter who breathed a sigh of relief.

"Nice to meet you Jim. Take care."

And that was it.  We left. Jim left. The other girls giggled all the way to the bus.

It's time to adapt. It's time to figure out how to approach the Jim's of the world.  This won't be the last awkward introduction. Let's just hope her boyfriends don't number as many as the stars.

Tonight, I visited with a dying friend. He may have one day left; he may have a hundred and one days left. Guessing the exact time and place when cancer overtakes his body tends to be an inexact science, apparently.

It is, at times, odd to confront death the same one confronts a trip to the supermarket. Yet, a matter-of-fact conversation regarding one's impending end can be helpful.

We talked bank accounts and retirement, deeds and mortgages, living wills and dying wishes as we sat on his couch.

Actually, we didn't talk at all. I talked. He listened.

He can't talk. He has a breathing tube inserted into his neck that prevents him from talking. He communicated by writing on a $5 whiteboard.

Life is precious. Time is short.

I wish I knew the date of my death. As it stands, I don't. And as such, I waste time.

I waste time watching tv shows. I waste time on the intrawebs. I waste time worrying about nonsense.

My friend isn't wasting time. neither should i.

Hard to believe that over the span of about four and a half years I typed 1226 posts. At least that's what blogger tells me. Some people just don't know when to shut up, apparently.

I stopped paying for themurphylife.com domain name. It just didn't seem Murphycheap to keep paying for a portion of cyberspace that was akin to a world wide web trash bin. (or should I say, "rubbish" for our Kiwi readers out there.)

Maybe I'll parlay the domain expense into a book fund to turn my blog into a book.

The great loss is all these unpublished blogs that are sitting on a blogger server somewhere in California, no doubt. I once heard Steinbeck's, Catcher in the Rye, first draft was eaten by his dog. Perhaps I should consider the unpublished blogs worth of my dog's lunch, and just move on.

It's been a great ride.

I've grown.

I love my wife and kids more than ever.

I've grown closer to my brother, Paul.

I've made a ton of new friends from far and away... mostly from far.

Tofa Amerika Samoa.

In this economic climate, jobs are scarce. People tend to hold onto the job they have... whether they like it or not. Because, jobs, are precious. And sometimes it takes a recession to realize it. As a society, we become spoiled and accustomed to a standard of living.

Upon returning to the mainland from Samoa, I was offered a job.... The first day. It was a decent job with decent pay. It would have required a suit and tie. It would have likely meant moving back to our old neighborhood. It was a fairly prestigious government post.

But... I was spoiled.

I turned it down and decided to pursue some non-profit ventures in the great state of Texas. As it turned out... those opportunities were fruitless.

Three months and a lot of cover letters later, I finally was offered a job at Southeastern Children's Home as their Gen.Counsel/Director of Development. Basically, I'm a paid beggar/fundraiser.

Those three months of unemployment were tough. The only thing friends and family wanted to do was talk about the one thing I didn't want to discuss. So, I avoided them. I rarely ventured online. I stopped checking my voice mail. I basically tried to become as invisible as possible because I was embarrassed.

I went from being King of the Castle to a nobody pauper in a matter of 6000 miles and two days. I was grumpy, depressed, and a killjoy.

Thankfully... I'm gainfully employed now. Perhaps I'll learn to savor my employment a bit more. Unemployment is certainly no place for sissies.

'nuff said.

Texting was virtually nonexistent on the island. Here, it's everywhere.

People are texting and tweeting in their cars (while driving). People text while at their child's soccer games. People text during sermons. I walked into a public restroom and I'm pretty sure I heard someone texting in the stall next to me. (ugh... I hope he doesn't share that phone.)

I don't mind people texting. Though, to me, it seems incredibly inefficient. Just pick up the phone and have a 30 second conversation instead of a 5 minute thumb-jarring text conversation.

I don't understand how people think it's O.K. to text while I'm having a conversation with them. How rude! Since when is it O.K. to interrupt a conversation? I don't care if you're glancing at your phone. I don't care if you're just using your thumbs. You and me... we're talking. Remember this... it's called a conversation. We use words... verbally. We enunciate and move our mouths in a rhythmic pattern. At least have the courtesy of giving me a little undivided attention.

I'm all for technology and change. I'm just not in favor of juggling 20 digital conversations while face-to-face with someone else.

'nuff said.

Sometimes, I'll speak in Samoan so that only Jaime and the kids know what I'm saying. Unfortunately, my childrens' Samoan skills are even worse than mine. Still... I randomly catch myself accidentally speaking Samoan.

The cashier at the Pump-N-Go shot me a strange look today after I slipped a "Faafetai" upon receiving $0.53 in change.

The strangers at Carabbas may have thought I was filled with the Holy Ghost when I slipped by and started mumbling "Tulo" the other night.

In my mind, I'm being polite. Unfortunately, people probably think I'm crazy.

old habits, die hard.

fa

'nuff said.

For years, I chalked up the idiocy of the Samoan government as... well... cultural. I blamed the poor customer service on fa'asamoa. Power outages, five hour waits in the "emergency" room, racist laws, inferior road designs, theft, corruption, obesity, drunkenness, constant lies... the gamut... all the result of a faulty culture.

But I was wrong. Culture was simply a scapegoat. After much thought, and some deliberation (at least 5 minutes), I've determined culture had little or nothing to do with our hassles in AmSam.

In AmSam, there were and are plenty of problems... but it was not a culture issue... it was a stupidity issue. Yep. Stupid. Dumb. Idiots. People are inherently stupid. We have an innate ability to make poor decisions, more often than not.

It's not just AmSam, though... it's everywhere. There are idiots everywhere, including S.Carolina. Before moving to AmSam, I didn't realize my own culture's idiocy. Somehow, I had been calloused to the idiocy in my own backyard. A different environment just make stupid more recognizable.

S.Carolinians are incredibly stupid... just in their own way. An Orangeburg mom just murdered two of her kids, strapped them in the back seat of her car, and pushed the car in a river. Amazingly dumb. It would not likely happen in AmSam. Samoans love their kids. Government administered foster care is virtually nonexistent because it's not needed. Families step up. Neighbors step up. Everyone pitches in to help.

AmSam and S.Carolina are incredibly different: different people, different values. But, we're all the cut from the same stupid mold.

'nuff said.