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
with twelve boys and one girl! If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have believed it.
I started teaching Sunday School in 1956, while I was still a student at Patten
Academy.
After high school, I left
Patten to study Medical Technology at the University of Maine. It was a tough
program, and I had to work hard to keep up. During that time, a young man from
Limestone proposed to me with a beautiful diamond ring. I told him no—I wanted
to finish school first. But a week later, he came back and said, “What if I
help you finish school?” That young man was Bill, and that’s how we got
married. We didn’t have much, but we were young and determined. And we had each
other.
For a while, I lived with
Bill’s boss’s family in Orono while Bill worked in Caribou. They were a Jewish
family—Esther and Elliot—and they treated me as one of their own. They had two
children, Beth and Johnny, and I loved babysitting them. Esther refused to take
money from me; she only asked that I vacuum twice a week. I still remember
their kindness.
I graduated from the University
of Maine in 1963, after some difficult years and one heartbreaking miscarriage.
Bill and I moved north to Presque Isle, where I began work at the new hospital.
I was a skinny girl with anemia, but I loved that job—even though the lab was
always full of cigarette smoke. It was a different time.
In 1967, seven years into our
marriage, our daughter Mary was born. She was tiny—just under five pounds—with
a full head of red hair. I quit working to stay home with her. We lived in a
trailer, but it was warm and filled with love. I still remember hanging diapers
on the line in three feet of snow while Bill shoveled a path for me. We had a
little kitten named Phantom who came before Mary and had to earn Bill’s
approval. But once he did, he was part of the family.
When Mary was still small, Bill had to go to Texas for work, and I returned to my lab job. One day, out of the blue, Dr. Ch. Smith—a tall, slightly intimidating man—offered me a new opportunity: to help start a school for laboratory aides. “You name your hours,” he told me. I couldn’t believe it! I taught every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from one to four in the afternoon. It was one of the greatest blessings of my life.
Teaching became one of my most
joyful and fulfilling experiences. Every single one of my students passed their
national exams. We studied hard, laughed together, and even took field trips to
Mount Katahdin. I still remember when raccoons stole our tuna sandwiches and we
had to eat peanut butter and jelly instead! Even students with severe diabetes
climbed to the Tableland with me. I taught for ten wonderful years.
When Mary got older and I
needed to earn more, I moved to Massachusetts and worked at Burbank Hospital in
Fitchburg. It was a solid job. Then one day, eleven years after we had parted,
Bill came back. He asked me to move with him to Iowa. I didn’t ask enough
questions—about housing, work, anything. I just went.
Looking back, I realize that
was a mistake. He was just starting a furniture business, and I had to find
part-time work at Northwest Hospital in Des Moines. Still, that job turned out
to be another blessing. I worked with a kind Filipino doctor named Emmanuel and
a woman with a pharmacy degree who just wanted to stay busy. God always
provides.
I stayed in Iowa for thirty
years. I had a garden in East Des Moines—60 by 50 feet! It could grow anything.
I shared grocery bags full of sweet corn, peas, melons, and greens with the
neighbors. I went back to Maine every summer, and Mary spent her summers with
my mother in Patten. Those were sweet, meaningful years.
Eventually, I moved to Sedona,
Arizona, with my second husband, Dick Moore. He was a kind, strong, and gentle
man. We built a beautiful home near the national forest. We hiked every week,
and I worked only part-time. We had two French cats and a peaceful life. Dick
built two homes in Sedona, but the one we lived in was our haven. We had ten
good years together before he passed away in 2013.
That same year, my brothers
helped me move back to Maine. Mary was living in St. Louis by then with her
husband, Eric—a six-foot-tall bald man who’s just a delight. Mary has twin
daughters, and Eric, though not their biological father, has stepped in with
great love and grace. Eventually, they moved to Fort Fairfield to be closer to me.
Mary now works remotely for the CIA, and the twins are students at the
University of Maine. One of them is even studying in Ireland this year!
Today, I’m living in a nursing
home, and while it’s a change, I’ve found peace here. The staff is kind, and
God has opened new doors for ministry. I felt the Spirit stirring in me, and I
began a morning devotional time at 10:00 AM with Wendy and Sharon. We cherished
that time. We miss Wendy since she left the home. Wanting to go deeper, we
asked for a weekly Bible study from Pastor Joyce and Houlton UMC. Thank you for
making that possible—we now have Bible study every Friday. I also pray for
every Sunday service and am grateful the UMC leads worship every third week.
Through those services, I feel like a true part of Houlton UMC.
One Sunday, Pastor Joyce said I
was like “Moses in the nursing home.” That touched me deeply. I’ve never
received so many kind compliments. Praise the Lord!
I still love old
hymns—especially “Blessed Assurance” and “I Love to Tell the Story.” My
mother’s favorite was “Abide with Me.” I remember singing it with her on our
porch in the Maine evenings. That’s something I miss—neighbors dropping by,
sitting on porches, singing hymns, sharing stories. There was such peace in
those moments.
If I could say just one thing
to my family and to anyone who hears my story, it would be this: God loves you. No matter what life
brings, no matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done—He is there. That truth
has carried me through every season.
And as long as I’m here, I hope
the church keeps coming to visit. Methodists, Baptists, Pentecostals,
Catholics—let them all come. We’re not done yet. Not until the Lord calls us
home.
Until then, I’m here—loving,
praying, and waiting for what God will do next.
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