Faithbook: Our Story, Our Song

I was probably three years old the first time I can remember getting into real mischief. I was sitting in a baby carriage, rocking it on purpose until it tipped right over. Looking back, that says a lot about me—I liked to test things, to see what would happen, to explore. I was the youngest of five children. My mother had what she called “two batches” of children. Three came early, and much later, Angel and I were born. By the time we were young, the older brothers and sister had already moved out into careers and marriages. Still, they stayed connected. We would visit them, and sometimes they would come stay with us. My brother Buzzy lived for years in Pleasant Valley, raising horses and chickens, and his family became part of my childhood landscape. Home life was shaped by my parents. Dad worked for Bower Memorials, selling gravestones. He always had a big briefcase full of papers in the car. If you rode with him, your feet rested on it. He was a kind man, and he passed on one main ...

Good morning, Stetson Memorial Church family. If you had told me just a few months ago that I'd be standing here, actively participating in church, perhaps even joining in church karaoke, I might not have believed you! For years, I would have found every excuse not to attend. I always felt a quiet tugging at my heart, a sense that there was something more, but I constantly ignored it. Sometimes it was because I didn't feel like I fit in, or I was simply embarrassed to admit how I truly felt. But today, with a humble heart, I share that I am genuinely embracing this journey. After some significant challenges in my life, God, in His grace, led me to find peace where I needed it most. I now feel a deep peace I longed for, the profound love of forgiveness I desperately needed, and for that, my heart is beyond thankful. I remember the profound love and bond I felt when I became a mother – a love unlike any other. I was raised in a Christian home, attending church every Sunday, Chris...

A new day, a new beginning, a new blessing, a new hope. That is what my testimony will be—sharing what my life was like, what happened before God’s intervention, and how my life is today.   Growing Up I was born and raised in a city in Massachusetts, in a French neighborhood and schooling. Everything looked good on the outside, but behind closed doors it was another world. At home, my father was very strict. At the dinner table, we weren’t allowed to laugh or even speak. Punishments could be harsh. I remember being hit with a Navy belt or forced to kneel in a closet for an hour. My two older siblings left home as soon as they could, leaving me and my younger sister behind. By six years old, I had my first drink. By twelve, I was drinking and using drugs. By fourteen, I was hanging out with a gang. Anything to numb the pain. Much of my childhood is missing from my memory bank. The trauma was too painful, so I blocked it out. Sometimes other family members would bring something up, a...

My name is Sharon Batchelder, and I was born in Danforth, Maine. When I look back over my life, I see pain and hardship, but I also see the faithfulness of God. My story is not always easy to tell, but it is a testimony of how God has carried me, healed me, and given me hope. Childhood and Early Struggles When I was only eight months old, my stepfather threw me down a flight of stairs. That fall left me with lasting damage. My whole right side was affected, almost as if I had a stroke. It took me sixteen years just to learn how to tie my own shoes. My stepfather was an alcoholic. He drank constantly, and with the drinking came anger, cruelty, and abuse. My mother had twelve children, though one died at birth. That left eleven of us growing up together, and life was not easy. My mother was afraid of my stepfather. I don’t know why she married him, but she did, and the fear never left her. He was a hard, cruel man. He abused us, and worse, he even harmed my older sister in ways that were...

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 fishpon...

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 three older brothers before him and one after 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 m...

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 ...