Faithbook: Our Story, Our Song

I was born in Connecticut, but Maine is where my story truly begins. My father was in the Army. While he was away serving, my mother found herself far from her family and the support she needed. She made a brave decision. She brought us back home to Hodgdon, to a place called the Jackson Settlement. That move shaped my whole life. Not long after, when Dad returned from the service, he bought a house up the road and fixed it up himself. That became our family home. I lived there all through my school years, until I married Gerald. When I think of my childhood, the first word that comes to mind is outside. We were outside kids. Our mother had to fight to get us inside at night. Bedtime was never easy. Times were different then. We didn’t roam miles away, but we were everywhere—yards, woods, corners of the neighborhood. We were free, and we were safe. Faith came into my life early, too. An aunt—Darlene Blackie’s mother-in-law—started us in Sunday school. She was a very strict Baptist. We ...

I was born in Presque Isle, Maine, and I have lived my whole life in the same house in Blaine. I am only nineteen years old, but in some ways, my life feels much older than that. Roots do that to a person. When you grow up in one place, with the same roads, the same seasons, and the same people, you begin to notice how time shapes you. My childhood was simple and steady. My parents did their best to give my siblings and me good lives. They wanted us to try things, to explore, to grow. I tried drawing, karate, sports and explored other things. We stayed busy. One of my clearest memories is snowmobiling with my father. Winter after winter, he took me out on the trails. There was the sound of the engine, the cold air on my face, and the sense of moving forward together. Looking back, that mattered more than I realized at the time. Faith was part of my life early on, though not always in a consistent way. My parents and grandparents attended a Pentecostal church. My grandmother, however, ...

When I look back on my life, my earliest memories are very simple ones. I remember my mother and father, and my two brothers. I was the oldest. We were not a rich family, but we had what we needed, and we had each other. The first place I remember living was an old farmhouse way out in the country. My father worked for his brother. They farmed with horses back then. We had no running water, no bathroom inside the house, just an outhouse. We got our water from a brook. At the time, it didn’t seem strange. It was just life. I remember riding on the wagon with my father, sitting up high while the horses pulled us along. They planted a few acres of potatoes, nothing like the big fields you see today. Life was hard work, but it was also a happy time. Later, my father began working for different people, and we moved into Mars Hill. Before that, we had lived in Robinson, a very small town. Mars Hill felt big to me. We moved into a house with lights and running water, and that felt like a grea...

When I look back on my life, the very first memory that rises to the surface is church—walking beside my grandfather, hand in hand. He was my beloved grandfather. He meant the world to me. My grandfather had a hard beginning. He was an orphaned boy from England, sent to this country when he was only six years old. He never saw his mother again. Life did not give him much, but he became a strong and faithful man. He had one child—my father—and I was his oldest grandchild. I thought very highly of him. I still do. One of my fondest memories is going to church with him when I was very small. That memory has never left me. He died when I was eleven years old, in Monticello. His death was my first deep loss, and even now, many years later, I can still feel it. I was born in Houlton, but I grew up in Monticello. Church was never optional in our home. My mother made sure of that. Every Sunday, without question, she took us to church and Sunday school. My father came on special occasions—Chris...

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...