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 fishpond
or a piggery, and inventing new ways to use his hands. He taught me contentment
and fairness, while my mother showed me perseverance and leadership. Between
the two of them, I grew up in a home that valued both ambition and humility.
One
of my proudest childhood memories was when I was chosen, at eight years old, to
place a lei on the President of the Philippines during a visit after a
devastating earthquake. For a small-town girl, that moment made me realize that
ordinary people can stand before leaders, and that I should never be ashamed to
offer what I have.
In
my twenties, I completed medical school in the Philippines and then came to the
United States at twenty-six for pediatric training in New York. That was a huge
transition. New York was a melting pot—Indians, Ukrainians, Iranians, and so
many others. I learned from their cultures and their foods, and at first I
didn’t feel out of place. But when I later moved to Houlton, Maine, it was
different. I was the only Filipino in town, and I felt all eyes on me. At
first, I wondered why my husband, Chet, brought me here. But over time, I found
that people are people everywhere—we all share more in common than we realize.
I
met Chet during our residency. I was chief resident in pediatrics, and he was
chief resident in orthopedics. We met through a patient—a young boy with
osteomyelitis—because his case needed both of us. Over weeks of caring for that
boy, I saw how Chet loved children, how gentle he was, and how hard he worked.
Within three months, we were engaged, and by March 1979, we were married. I
knew early on he was a good man—he didn’t smoke or drink, and he was generous
to a fault. Once, I gave him a baseball video game as a gift, and the very next
day I saw a neighborhood boy playing with it. Chet had given it away, saying
the child needed it more than he did. That’s who he was.
When
he finished training, Chet turned down opportunities in California and
Illinois. He didn’t want wealth or prestige; he wanted a safe, family-oriented
place to raise children. That’s how we ended up in Houlton in 1982. His friends
in New York asked, “Why Houlton, Maine?” and Chet simply replied, “I will go
where I am needed.” I was pregnant with our daughter Alice, and our son Joe was
just a year old. At first, I cried. The snowy fields felt so lonely compared to
New York City. But Houlton became our home. Chet began his orthopedic practice,
and before long, I was drawn back into medicine too. One night, the hospital
needed a pediatrician for a baby with meningitis, and even though I didn’t yet
have a Maine license, they called me in. From that night on, I began practicing
pediatrics here. I realized how much I missed caring for children and how much
I loved serving families in this community.
Life
in Houlton wasn’t always easy, but our marriage stayed strong because of three
things: love, trust, and respect. And on top of that—communication. I had to
learn that silence doesn’t always mean disagreement, and Chet had to learn to
express himself more clearly. Marriage is a lifelong school where you never
stop learning, and by God’s grace, we’ve been blessed with over 46 years
together.
Of
course, life brought difficulties too. During my medical training, the workload
was grueling, with little sleep and endless calls. Later, in practice, I faced
heartbreaking cases, like a five-year-old with leukemia who eventually died.
Those moments shook my faith. At first, I treated faith like rules—the Ten
Commandments, doing good deeds. But in those dark nights of the soul, I began
seeking God more deeply. Through prayer, the church, and the kindness of other
believers, my faith became personal. I realized God’s presence in suffering and
the importance of community in carrying one another’s burdens.
When
we came to Houlton, I first attended the Catholic Church, out of respect for my
upbringing. But it felt too stiff, and I longed for a warmer, more welcoming
place. We eventually found the Methodist church, where the pastors and members
embraced us, and where my children were baptized. For over forty years, this
church has been our spiritual home, nurturing us and giving us opportunities to
serve.
My
greatest hope for my children and grandchildren is that they will find success
in whatever path God places before them, but above all, that they will develop
a strong faith. Life is full of challenges, but faith gives us the anchor we
need. I pray that they will always know God’s presence, whatever church they attend,
and that they will live with compassion and courage.
If
I had to share one life lesson, it would be this: be content. True joy doesn’t
come from possessions or achievements, but from gratitude and generosity. My
father once lost a shoe while boarding a boat. Without hesitation, he threw the
other one into the water, saying, “It’s useless to me now, but maybe a
fisherman will find them both.” That moment taught me that even in loss, we can
still give. Life is richest when we share what we have, even when it feels like
little.
As
for how I want to be remembered, it is simple: that I treated everyone the
same. Regardless of race, age, religion, or status—I hope people remember me as
someone who valued every person equally, who sought to be fair, and who lived
with kindness. If people remember me that way, then I will feel I have lived my
life well.
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