Faithbook: Our Story, Our Song

I was born a twin, and I always thought that was the greatest thing in the world. From the very beginning, I had someone who understood me, walked like me, thought like me, and always had my back. My sister Nancy and I were as close as two people could be. People said we were identical twins, but I never quite believed that. We looked alike when we were little, but as we grew up, we began to look more like sisters than identical twins. We grew up in Weymouth, Massachusetts, on a piece of land where my father grew vegetables. We had goats and chickens, and life felt full of simple joys. Our neighborhood was a mix of old Yankees, Lithuanians, Irish, and Syrian families. Everyone got along. But when my parents separated and my mother moved us to Quincy, everything changed. Suddenly, we weren’t welcome anymore—because we were Italians. When we went to knock on doors and ask if friends could come out to play, their parents would say, “Oh no, she’s sick today.” We didn’t understand why we we...

I grew up in Hingham, Massachusetts, about twenty miles south of Boston, just a mile from the Atlantic Ocean. I was born and raised on a small farm—just a few acres—but it was full of life. We had chickens, pigs, goats, and sheep. I remember plowing the garden with horses before we ever had a tractor. Everything we did was by hand—just like the Amish people. We didn’t have chainsaws or power tools, just axes and two-man saws. We worked hard, but we also grew everything we ate. The only thing we had to buy was milk because we didn’t have a cow. That’s the kind of life I had as a boy—simple, tough, but good. My father came from Italy, and my mother was born in Massachusetts, though she was also of Italian descent. We were a close family. My earliest memories are of playing with things you don’t see today—pedal cars, bicycles, little scooters. I loved anything that had wheels or made noise. By the time I was twelve, I was already driving around on homemade tractors made from old trucks....

I was probably three years old the first time I can remember getting into real mischief. I was sitting in a baby carriage, rocking it on purpose until it tipped right over. Looking back, that says a lot about me—I liked to test things, to see what would happen, to explore. I was the youngest of five children. My mother had what she called “two batches” of children. Three came early, and much later, Angel and I were born. By the time we were young, the older brothers and sister had already moved out into careers and marriages. Still, they stayed connected. We would visit them, and sometimes they would come stay with us. My brother Buzzy lived for years in Pleasant Valley, raising horses and chickens, and his family became part of my childhood landscape. Home life was shaped by my parents. Dad worked for Bower Memorials, selling gravestones. He always had a big briefcase full of papers in the car. If you rode with him, your feet rested on it. He was a kind man, and he passed on one main ...

Good morning, Stetson Memorial Church family. If you had told me just a few months ago that I'd be standing here, actively participating in church, perhaps even joining in church karaoke, I might not have believed you! For years, I would have found every excuse not to attend. I always felt a quiet tugging at my heart, a sense that there was something more, but I constantly ignored it. Sometimes it was because I didn't feel like I fit in, or I was simply embarrassed to admit how I truly felt. But today, with a humble heart, I share that I am genuinely embracing this journey. After some significant challenges in my life, God, in His grace, led me to find peace where I needed it most. I now feel a deep peace I longed for, the profound love of forgiveness I desperately needed, and for that, my heart is beyond thankful. I remember the profound love and bond I felt when I became a mother – a love unlike any other. I was raised in a Christian home, attending church every Sunday, Chris...

A new day, a new beginning, a new blessing, a new hope. That is what my testimony will be—sharing what my life was like, what happened before God’s intervention, and how my life is today.   Growing Up I was born and raised in a city in Massachusetts, in a French neighborhood and schooling. Everything looked good on the outside, but behind closed doors it was another world. At home, my father was very strict. At the dinner table, we weren’t allowed to laugh or even speak. Punishments could be harsh. I remember being hit with a Navy belt or forced to kneel in a closet for an hour. My two older siblings left home as soon as they could, leaving me and my younger sister behind. By six years old, I had my first drink. By twelve, I was drinking and using drugs. By fourteen, I was hanging out with a gang. Anything to numb the pain. Much of my childhood is missing from my memory bank. The trauma was too painful, so I blocked it out. Sometimes other family members would bring something up, a...

My name is Sharon Batchelder, and I was born in Danforth, Maine. When I look back over my life, I see pain and hardship, but I also see the faithfulness of God. My story is not always easy to tell, but it is a testimony of how God has carried me, healed me, and given me hope. Childhood and Early Struggles When I was only eight months old, my stepfather threw me down a flight of stairs. That fall left me with lasting damage. My whole right side was affected, almost as if I had a stroke. It took me sixteen years just to learn how to tie my own shoes. My stepfather was an alcoholic. He drank constantly, and with the drinking came anger, cruelty, and abuse. My mother had twelve children, though one died at birth. That left eleven of us growing up together, and life was not easy. My mother was afraid of my stepfather. I don’t know why she married him, but she did, and the fear never left her. He was a hard, cruel man. He abused us, and worse, he even harmed my older sister in ways that were...

My name is Linda Maraya, and when I look back at my life, I feel both humbled and grateful for the journey God has taken me on. I was born and raised in the Philippines, the youngest in a family of three girls, though our eldest was adopted—a fact I didn’t even know until I was about twelve. Family life was joyful and simple. My earliest memories are of playing with cousins, running around barefoot, and gathering seeds from the plants around our house. Life was busy but full of laughter, games, and neighbors who were like extended family. My parents were both teachers, and they taught me so much—not just in the classroom, but about life. My mother was ambitious, outspoken, and civic-minded. She organized libraries in small towns, pushed for clean water systems, and served as a principal at school. She was strict but accomplished. My father, on the other hand, was humble, gentle, and generous. He was happiest working with carpenters and farmers, running small businesses like a fishpon...

I was born in 1938, and from the beginning, it was clear I wasn't the boy my father had hoped for. In our family, boys were prized—a tradition going back generations. My father was child number eight, with four sisters and four older brothers before him. He always imagined having sons of his own, and when I came into the world, he had to pivot. But he did it with love—and with a harp. You see, my father adored harp music. He asked every woman he dated if she'd learn to play. None said yes. So when he married my mother, she made a counteroffer: she'd give him six children, but not the harp lessons. Instead, their firstborn—me—became the harpist. On my 14th birthday, he gave me a concert harp. That instrument became my lifelong companion, my calling. The first vivid memory I have is from when I was three. It was winter. I went out to play, and an icicle fell from the roof and hit me squarely on the forehead. Blood, pain, panic—but our dog barked until my mother came to th...

I was four years old when I died. It sounds dramatic, I know—but it’s true. My appendix ruptured, and without penicillin, I wouldn’t be here. For a few minutes, I crossed over. I remember it so clearly—the welcome, the warmth, the color of the sky. It looked like a sunset. Ever since, I’ve been drawn to sunsets. It wasn’t until later that I pieced it all together: I had been to the other side, and I had come back. God let me come back. From that day on, I never doubted the reality of heaven. And as a child, when I sat in Sunday school and the teacher spoke about eternity, I didn’t need convincing—I already knew. That deep knowing became a thread through my life, one of the few constants in a world full of changes. I was born in Massachusetts, though I rarely claim it. My family moved to Atlanta when I was small, but the segregation of the 1940s was hard to stomach, even for a child. We came back to Maine after two years, and that’s where I found my roots. My father was a genero...

I often think of life as a long, winding road—sometimes well-paved and sunlit, other times cracked and shrouded in fog. But every mile of it brought me closer to home—not just a place, but a spiritual home I had left behind for too long. My earliest roots in faith were planted in an evangelical church in Storrs, Connecticut. I was around ten when we started attending Storrs Community Church. For five short but pivotal years, I experienced what I now recognize as my first awakening to God’s presence. That church was alive. The pews were filled with children, laughter, and vibrant worship. Pastor Dennis Ritcher, passionate and steady, stood like a lighthouse for many of us. It was my mother who urged us to go—“Our children need a foundation,” she told my father. And she was right. Those years shaped me in ways I wouldn’t understand until decades later. I made a bookmark in Sunday school once, with a verse from Jeremiah, sealed in plastic. I still have it tucked inside my Living Bible...

My name is Roberta Adams Moore—though some still know me as Roberta Finnemore—and I was born in 1940 in Patten, Maine. I’m 85 years old now, and by God’s grace, I’ve lived a full and colorful life. I was the eldest of four children, born to Robert and Minnie Adams. My mother made sure we went to Sunday School starting at age five. Every Sunday, without fail, we were at the United Methodist Church in Patten—a beautiful old church where faith felt alive and close. Pastor Herman Grant, a Patten Academy graduate like I was, served as our pastor for a time. A quiet man, but full of wisdom. I still remember what he told me when I was sixteen and teaching a third-grade Sunday School class. He said, “Maybe there’s something more they need than just the books of the Bible.” I never forgot his words—and I never forgot those books either. I can still recite them by heart to this day. That first classroom where I taught was really just an old entryway no one used anymore, but it was packed wit...