Faithbook: Our Story, Our Song

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...

I had a really happy childhood. My parents were wonderful people—kind, loving, and steady. Both sides of my family were close-knit. Sundays were for gathering. We’d go visit my mom’s parents in Canada. They lived in one part of the house, and my uncle lived in the other. We’d eat together, talk, laugh—it was warm and familiar. My aunts were more like sisters than aunts, and children were always included in everything. We weren’t pushed outside or ignored. We sat around the table with everyone else, listening and learning from their stories and their laughter. My grandmother on my dad’s side was extra special to me. She lived just down across the tracks, on Silver Street. I’d stop there on my way home from school for a cookie and a little visit. She had 37 grandchildren, and each one of us felt like we were her favorite. That says a lot about the kind of woman she was. She always had time, even when she was busy, and her words stuck with me—“If you can’t say something good, don’t say...

I was born in Rumford, down south a bit, but I moved here when I was two or three. So, I pretty much grew up in Mars Hill—this town has always been home. Some of my earliest and happiest memories are from time spent at my grandparents' house. They had a three-season porch with an old cot where I’d take naps, and I even liked sleeping down in the basement by the old wringer washer. I always remember the smell of cookies and the simple joy of being there. Our family life was simple, but full. I remember picnics after church—those were big in our family. All the kids would run around while the adults visited. It was a good time, with cousins and neighbors all gathered. I grew up in a big neighborhood full of kids. We always had someone to play with. I was raised in the Mars Hill Methodist Church, and so were my parents and grandparents. I can still picture my grandmother humming hymns as she worked in the kitchen or garden. It wasn’t until I went to church that I realized, “Oh! Th...

You could say I was born into the church. Not with a dramatic conversion or a lightning-strike moment of faith—just a quiet, steady life of belonging and believing. My father was a Methodist minister, ordained in 1929 in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, into what was then the newly formed United Church of Canada. Faith wasn’t something we added onto life; it was the ground beneath our feet. My earliest memory, one I can clearly date, is seeing my baby sister for the first time. I was three years old, peeking into a room in Louise Hahn’s home in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, where both of us were born. There was no hospital in town, so Louise, a nurse, took patients into her house. That's where I first saw her—my sister—and that image has stayed with me. We lived in Blue Rocks back then, a small fishing village with twisty dirt roads, “tickle-belly” hills, and a language all its own. My father served the church there, and our house was on a hilltop overlooking the village—next door to the church ...

My earliest childhood memory is that I was already attending church when I was in kindergarten. When I was little, my kindergarten and the church were in the same place, so church life was not separate from my everyday life—it was part of who I was. In my family, community, and church, those early memories are deeply rooted and filled with warmth. I remember when I was very small, my father was a deacon in the church. So I often saw my father working hard for the church, helping with services, supporting others, and being a strong presence of faith. That’s the main reason I came to know the Lord Jesus from such a young age. My earliest experiences of faith were not just taught, they were shown through my father’s actions. My faith has deep roots that go back many generations. My maternal grandfather was a pastor. He became a Christian and later a pastor because of the influence of American missionaries during the Qing Dynasty. Their witness changed his life, and that faith became a fou...

I was born on February 9, 1979, in South Korea, into a Methodist pastor’s family. My story really begins even before I was born. My mother, like Hannah in the Bible, made a vow to God. She prayed that if God gave her a son, she would dedicate him to the Lord’s service. But she never pressured me. My parents never forced me to become a pastor, even though my grandfather, father, and uncle were all in ministry. Instead, they simply showed me what a life devoted to God looked like. That left a lasting impression. Growing up, I experienced God’s presence in personal ways. I was often sick as a child—with tympanitis and arthritis—but I also experienced healing. Those moments drew me closer to God. But it wasn’t until a youth retreat in 1991, when I was 12, that I responded to the gospel in a personal way. My grandfather preached at that retreat, calling us to repentance and to follow Jesus. Something stirred in me. For the first time, I desired to devote my life to Christ. Fast forward to t...

I was born the youngest of eight siblings in a devout Christian family. My grandfather, a man of deep faith and commitment, was always actively involved in the life and service of the church. When a new sanctuary was being constructed in our community, he joyfully donated a bell tower, seeing it as a gift to God and the congregation. However, tragedy struck during the installation process. Determined to contribute with his own hands, he tried to install the bell himself. In a heartbreaking accident, he fell and died inside the church building. His death, though painful, was a testimony to a life poured out for Christ. I often reflect on that moment as an act of mayordom—a sacrificial offering of devotion and legacy in faith. Since childhood, music captured my heart. I particularly loved to sing. It brought me joy, solace, and a sense of closeness to God. My older brothers were also musically gifted, even more so than I. Music seemed to run in our blood. It played a major role in shapin...

I was born into a pastor's home, surrounded by faith yet longing for something deeper. My earliest memories are of church pews and daily devotions, yet I felt distanced from the God my parents loved. As a child, I wrestled with deep anger and painful questions. My relationship with my father was strained, and there were moments I questioned whether even God could change him—or me. That changed when I was eight years old. I heard the testimony of a North Korean girl imprisoned for her faith. Her story of unwavering love for Jesus stirred something in me. That night, I cried out to the God I only knew from a distance. What followed was nothing short of a divine encounter. I saw a panorama of my sins—selfishness, bitterness, hatred—and I wept for three days in repentance and joy. I knew Jesus had died for me. From that moment, faith became personal. Astonishingly, around that same time, my authoritarian father began to change. He became more open, more gentle. I saw firsthand that...

I was born in 1933 and grew up in Dyer Brook, Maine, surrounded by the kind of close-knit, multigenerational family that shaped every part of who I became. We lived under one roof—my parents, my grandparents, and often extended family who came to visit for days or even weeks at a time, especially in the summer. People didn’t think twice about dropping in from across the mountain, and those visits were always welcome. That sense of community and kinship has stayed with me all my life. I had two sisters who were close in age and a brother ten years younger. While we didn’t have elaborate family traditions, our bond was strong. Mealtimes were spent together, and we always looked out for each other. We lived near Smyrna on the main road where the Southern Aroostook school now stands. My earliest church memories come from the little Baptist church on the hill, which is now the Dyer Brook Community Church. I went to Sunday school there. I never had a favorite hymn myself, but I remember my f...

I was born in Mars Hill, Maine, and spent my childhood nearby. Back then, people didn’t travel much. We lived out in the country, where my father worked for a farmer. Our home was modest, and my earliest memories include the anxiety of starting school. I had to take the bus, and when that door shut behind me, I felt overwhelmed and alone. I cried a lot, and my teachers had their hands full. Thankfully, my older sister, five years ahead of me in school, was allowed to sit with me for a while until I got used to it. Eventually, the principal had a firm word with me, and that helped turn things around. Like most kids in those days, I helped out at home. In the fall, I joined my mother in the potato fields. I enjoyed school, especially the social parts—being in exhibitions, acting in the senior play, and dancing at Friday night socials. After graduation in 1953, I completed a business course that taught shorthand and typing. Just as I finished school, Loring Air Force Base was opening....