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 and eventually connected to it by a hall Dad built himself. We had electric lights, a telephone, and a well out back. And Dad? He was paid $900 a year—when the church could raise it.
I don’t remember not being in church. I’ve even been told that my first appearance “up front” happened when I crawled away from my mother during a service and ended up swinging between my father's legs while he was praying.
When I was five, we moved to Musquodoboit Harbour on Nova Scotia's eastern shore. That’s where the work multiplied. My father was responsible for eight churches and two schoolhouses across ten small communities. He visited people day and night, often traveling 50 miles between places. He’d make breakfast for us, then head out—and sometimes we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.
During World War II, we lived under rationing. We were taught to report unidentified planes and strangers. One woman in Dad’s parish overheard a tenant speaking German on the radio. She reported him—and he turned out to be a man who had come ashore from a German submarine. The war was very real, even on our coast.
Church life wasn’t something we did on Sundays—it was woven into our days. The women quilted in our parlor. Mom ran Mission Band in our kitchen. We collected donations for Bible societies door to door. It shaped me.
After graduating from Pedicodiac Regional High School in New Brunswick, I attended Mount Allison University in Sackville. That’s where I met Don. It was on a skating rink—he introduced himself, and at first, I thought nothing of it. But he was persistent. He asked me to a movie, Dr. Zhivago, and after that, he just kept asking. Every time we met, he made sure there was a “next time.”
He proposed in Houlton, where I was working a summer job. I remember thinking: you made this decision as an adult. You don’t just walk away when it gets hard. We had our differences. He was dominant. But I had made a vow—before God and before my father, who married us. For better or for worse. And I meant it. He was a good man. We had a good life together. I loved him deeply.
We were just three weeks shy of our 65th anniversary when Don passed. Sixty-five years. We built a life together. He studied dentistry; I supported us by teaching while he was in dental school for the last three years. I even bought my ring.
Eventually, we settled in Houlton. Don opened a practice and slowly built his clientele. I worked as his assistant for many years. And Don? He was always up to something. One time, we drove weekly to Madison, Maine, for work. I was pregnant, and our car broke down outside Bangor. A truck driver gave us a ride home. Life with Don was an adventure.
We moved a couple of times—Highland Avenue, then McSheffery Road, where Don built this house. Literally. He asked if I’d mind, and I said, “As long as it’s finished by the time we move in.”
Church remained central. When we moved to Houlton in 1961, I joined the Methodist Church. I was part of the Rachel Circle. We did it all—suppers, quilting, mission work. I remember when Karl was baptized by Rev. Buzza. Later, when Rev. Naomi arrived and the parsonage wasn’t ready, Don invited her and her guests to stay with us. That was his spirit—welcoming, always.
We raised our children in the church. I remember telling them: “You can have a sleepover Saturday night, but you’re home for Sunday school.” And we did it—then went to McDonald's afterward.
Through the years, I’ve seen the church change. It was full when we arrived. Ricker College was active, and their president, C. Worth Howard, brought students to our services. His wife, Muriel, played piano beautifully. There was a strong, thriving community.
Now, it’s different. My hope is to see my children and grandchildren return to church. I hope they come back. Because I believe the church gives roots and meaning and community that the world desperately needs.
Some memories stay vivid. When my father died, I was driving to Moncton, rushing to see him before he passed. Somewhere along the way, I was filled with a deep, supernatural calm. I could see him—surrounded by his parents, at peace. And when I woke the next morning, the hymn that came to mind was, It Is Well with My Soul. I’ve never forgotten that moment. The presence of God was unmistakable.
It happened again when my mother died. My sister and I both felt it—her spirit in the room, full of love and light. Moments like that change you. They confirm what you’ve believed all along.
At 90, people ask me what I’ve learned. I’d say this: stop and think before reacting. Try to understand where others are coming from. Be kind. Be honest. And most of all—love. My favorite scripture is 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient, kind. It doesn’t keep a record of wrongs. It rejoices with the truth. That kind of love? It changes everything.
My mother once told me: “Don’t judge someone because they didn’t speak to you. Maybe they’re shy. Maybe they don’t think much of themselves.” That’s stayed with me. It’s helped me to listen, to hold back judgment, to respond with grace.
If I could leave one message to my family, it would be this: do your best. Be reliable, honest, compassionate. And love without condition. That’s the legacy I want to leave—not achievements, but a heart that stayed soft and faithful.
And how do I want to be remembered? As someone who tried. Who did her best. Who loved. And who kept her vow.
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 and eventually connected to it by a hall Dad built himself. We had electric lights, a telephone, and a well out back. And Dad? He was paid $900 a year—when the church could raise it.
I don’t remember not being in church. I’ve even been told that my first appearance “up front” happened when I crawled away from my mother during a service and ended up swinging between my father's legs while he was praying.
When I was five, we moved to Musquodoboit Harbour on Nova Scotia's eastern shore. That’s where the work multiplied. My father was responsible for eight churches and two schoolhouses across ten small communities. He visited people day and night, often traveling 50 miles between places. He’d make breakfast for us, then head out—and sometimes we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.
During World War II, we lived under rationing. We were taught to report unidentified planes and strangers. One woman in Dad’s parish overheard a tenant speaking German on the radio. She reported him—and he turned out to be a man who had come ashore from a German submarine. The war was very real, even on our coast.
Church life wasn’t something we did on Sundays—it was woven into our days. The women quilted in our parlor. Mom ran Mission Band in our kitchen. We collected donations for Bible societies door to door. It shaped me.
After graduating from Pedicodiac Regional High School in New Brunswick, I attended Mount Allison University in Sackville. That’s where I met Don. It was on a skating rink—he introduced himself, and at first, I thought nothing of it. But he was persistent. He asked me to a movie, Dr. Zhivago, and after that, he just kept asking. Every time we met, he made sure there was a “next time.”
He proposed in Houlton, where I was working a summer job. I remember thinking: you made this decision as an adult. You don’t just walk away when it gets hard. We had our differences. He was dominant. But I had made a vow—before God and before my father, who married us. For better or for worse. And I meant it. He was a good man. We had a good life together. I loved him deeply.
We were just three weeks shy of our 65th anniversary when Don passed. Sixty-five years. We built a life together. He studied dentistry; I supported us by teaching while he was in dental school for the last three years. I even bought my ring.
Eventually, we settled in Houlton. Don opened a practice and slowly built his clientele. I worked as his assistant for many years. And Don? He was always up to something. One time, we drove weekly to Madison, Maine, for work. I was pregnant, and our car broke down outside Bangor. A truck driver gave us a ride home. Life with Don was an adventure.
We moved a couple of times—Highland Avenue, then McSheffery Road, where Don built this house. Literally. He asked if I’d mind, and I said, “As long as it’s finished by the time we move in.”
Church remained central. When we moved to Houlton in 1961, I joined the Methodist Church. I was part of the Rachel Circle. We did it all—suppers, quilting, mission work. I remember when Karl was baptized by Rev. Buzza. Later, when Rev. Naomi arrived and the parsonage wasn’t ready, Don invited her and her guests to stay with us. That was his spirit—welcoming, always.
We raised our children in the church. I remember telling them: “You can have a sleepover Saturday night, but you’re home for Sunday school.” And we did it—then went to McDonald's afterward.
Through the years, I’ve seen the church change. It was full when we arrived. Ricker College was active, and their president, C. Worth Howard, brought students to our services. His wife, Muriel, played piano beautifully. There was a strong, thriving community.
Now, it’s different. My hope is to see my children and grandchildren return to church. I hope they come back. Because I believe the church gives roots and meaning and community that the world desperately needs.
Some memories stay vivid. When my father died, I was driving to Moncton, rushing to see him before he passed. Somewhere along the way, I was filled with a deep, supernatural calm. I could see him—surrounded by his parents, at peace. And when I woke the next morning, the hymn that came to mind was, It Is Well with My Soul. I’ve never forgotten that moment. The presence of God was unmistakable.
It happened again when my mother died. My sister and I both felt it—her spirit in the room, full of love and light. Moments like that change you. They confirm what you’ve believed all along.
At 90, people ask me what I’ve learned. I’d say this: stop and think before reacting. Try to understand where others are coming from. Be kind. Be honest. And most of all—love. My favorite scripture is 1 Corinthians 13. Love is patient, kind. It doesn’t keep a record of wrongs. It rejoices with the truth. That kind of love? It changes everything.
My mother once told me: “Don’t judge someone because they didn’t speak to you. Maybe they’re shy. Maybe they don’t think much of themselves.” That’s stayed with me. It’s helped me to listen, to hold back judgment, to respond with grace.
If I could leave one message to my family, it would be this: do your best. Be reliable, honest, compassionate. And love without condition. That’s the legacy I want to leave—not achievements, but a heart that stayed soft and faithful.
And how do I want to be remembered? As someone who tried. Who did her best. Who loved. And who kept her vow.
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