My Mom Dumped Jesus For Jack Murphy (While Keeping Her Faith)

And Thank God She Did.

I always joke that my mom left Jesus for my dad, Jack Murphy.

It usually gets a laugh, but it’s also sort of true.

She was a Catholic nun. And then, one day, she wasn’t.

She spent years serving in the Immaculate Heart of Mary order, following in the footsteps of her beloved aunt Mary Logan (aka Sister M St. Thomas), who spent over fifty years as a Catholic nun. My Mom believed she was devoting her life to the highest calling possible. While she was in the convent, her twin brother Billy served in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne. Both wore the uniform of their beloved church and country, respectively.

My mother at Immaculate Heart of Mary convent, 1965

And then, one day, she left it all behind. Not because she lost faith, but because she found something else worth believing in. One that eventually involved raising three rambunctious kids in a row house in Northeast Philly. She made sure everyone in the neighborhood knew that the Murphys led with values, sending us to Catholic school, and raising first-generation college graduates.

What she never left, though, was her love of our faith, family, and community. A regular devotee to 6:30 a.m. daily mass, she gave us kids a choice: deliver the morning Philadelphia Inquirer before school or join her at church. My brother JJ and I chose the paper route and did it on roller skates and a shopping cart filled with that day’s papers.

She may have left the Church’s walls, but she never left its principles—later serving as a Eucharistic Minister.

There’s a reason all three Murphy kids ended up in public service. My sister has spent over two decades as a public school teacher. My brother served in the Air Force, completing two overseas deployments before continuing his work in public safety down in Florida. I also went into the military and later, political public service. That wasn’t a coincidence. That was Margie Rapone Murphy’s influence on her kids.

On Saturdays, when all we wanted to do was run outside to play or head to our baseball/basketball/soccer/hockey games, she made us do chores first. Make our beds, vacuum the living room and basement, and dust. Not as punishment, but because pride starts at home. She’d then have us fix up our neighborhood block—sweeping the sidewalks, picking up litter, and helping our elderly neighbors by mowing their lawns or shoveling their steps for free when it snowed. I can still hear the hum of her Hi-Fi stereo blasting her ‘Hi God’ records, with classics like “I wish I were a butterfly” (“I’d thank you God for giving me wings”).

My mother and father in Wildwood, New Jersey

That was her gospel: if you wanted the world to be better, you started with your own house and your own street. It was a row house mentality— expressing gratitude by taking care of the people to your left and right.

On Sundays, there was no skipping church. And there was definitely no hiding in the back pews. First three rows. Always. Dressed in our Sunday best. No shorts and always there for Holy Days of Obligation. Which is probably why now, when I take my own kids to weekly mass, I make sure to sit towards the back as a sign of rebellion. Partly out of guilt, because I’ll never be as good as her, but also out of gratitude. Gratitude for a mom who showed us that faith isn’t something you talk about—it’s something you live. She made sure we understood the importance of faith and family as a treasured gift.

These days, she’s happiest when surrounded by her ten grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Whether it’s a family graduation, a special trip to Disney World, or our annual Jersey Shore trip to Wildwood, she’s the one keeping everyone fed and sunscreened, holding the newborns more than anyone else, giving the new parents a much-needed break. And somehow, even at 78, she’s still one of the first on the dance floor at every family wedding.

My mother with just a few of her grandchildren

At West Point, we taught cadets to let your troops eat first. But I saw that kind of leadership long before I wore a uniform. I saw it at our kitchen table. My mother never sat until everyone else’s plate was filled—-and usually with a second helping on the way.

My mom’s legacy is built on little things that added up to a big life.

So this Mother’s Day, I want to say thank you to the woman who gave us grit, grace, and the gospel of doing the right thing—even when no one’s watching. Who led with action, not just words. Thank you, Margaret “Margie” Rapone Murphy—who left a convent but never left her calling. Who gave us a blueprint for how to live a life with purpose. Who taught us that strength doesn’t necessarily mean muscles, but having a selfless heart and leading with love.

She is a person with more heart, drive, and devotion than anyone I’ve ever known. It’s why our daughter Maggie is named after her— and not surprisingly, they’re “besties.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you. As does everyone who’s ever known you. Sorry I didn’t become the parish priest you always hoped for—but watching the way you love my kids shows me you know I also made the right choice. Can’t wait to be at church with you later this morning— even if, much to your chagrin, I’m still sitting towards the back pews.

-Patrick

The Honorable Patrick J. Murphy is a Wharton lecturer, Vetrepreneur, and the 32nd Army Under Secretary after earning the Bronze Star for service in Baghdad, Iraq as an All-American with the 82nd Airborne Division—@PatrickMurphyPA on Instagram and Twitter.