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 ...