“I Love to Tell the Story” by Roberta Finnemore

My name is Roberta Adams Moore—though some know me as Roberta Finnemore—and I was born in 1940 in Patten, Maine. I'm 85 years old now, and I’ve lived a full and colorful life, by God’s grace.

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, we were there at the United Methodist Church in Patten—a beautiful old church where faith felt alive. Pastor Herman Grant, a graduate of Patten Academy like I was, led us for a time. A quiet man, but wise. He once told me, when I was just sixteen and teaching a third-grade Sunday school class, “Maybe there’s something more they need than just the books of the Bible.” I took his words to heart, but I never forgot those books—and I still know them by heart to this day.

That tiny classroom, just an old entryway no one used anymore, was packed with twelve boys and one girl. If you could’ve seen it, you wouldn’t have believed it. I started teaching when I was sixteen, in 1956, while I was still in school at Patten Academy.

I eventually left Patten to study Medical Technology at the University of Maine. It was a tough program, and I had to work hard. During my time there, a young man from Limestone proposed to me with a beautiful diamond. I told him no—I wanted to finish school first. But he came back a week later and said, “What if I help you finish school?” And that’s how I married Bill. We were young and determined. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.

For a time, I lived with his boss’s family in Orono while Bill worked in Caribou. They were Jewish, and they treated me as their own. Esther and Elliot had two children—Beth and Johnny—and I still remember them fondly. They wouldn’t take any money from me, just asked me to vacuum twice a week. I babysat the kids and loved it.

Eventually, I graduated from the University of Maine in 1963, after some hard years and one heartbreaking miscarriage. Bill and I moved north to Presque Isle, where I began work at the new hospital. I was just a skinny girl with anemia, but I loved that job, even though my coworkers smoked constantly in the lab. Different times.

In 1967, after seven years of marriage, our daughter Mary was born. She was tiny—under five pounds—and had red hair from the beginning. I quit work to stay home with her. We lived in a trailer, but it was warm and full of love. I still remember hanging diapers on the line in three feet of snow, with Bill shoveling a path just so I could do it. 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 little, Bill had to go to Texas, and I continued working as a med tech. Then one day, out of the blue, Dr. Ch. Smith—towering and a little intimidating—offered me a new opportunity: to help start a school for laboratory aides. “You name your hours,” he said. I couldn’t believe it. I taught Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, one to four in the afternoon. What a gift!

That became one of the most fulfilling parts of my life. Every single one of my students passed their national exams. We learned, we laughed, we took field trips to Mount Katahdin, and once, we even lost our tuna sandwiches to raccoons and had to make do with peanut butter and jelly. Even the students with severe diabetes climbed to the Tableland with me. I taught for ten years, and it was pure joy.

When Mary got older and I needed more income, I moved to Massachusetts and worked at Burbank Hospital in Fitchburg. It was a good job. But then Bill came back—eleven years after he’d left. He asked me to move to Iowa with him. I didn’t ask enough questions—I should’ve asked about a job, a home—but I didn’t. I just went.

Turned out, it was a mistake. He was just starting a furniture business, and I ended up working part-time at Northwest Hospital in Des Moines. That job turned out to be another blessing. I worked with wonderful people—a Filipino doctor named Emmanuel, and a woman with a pharmacy degree working just to stay busy. Despite the hardship, I stayed in Iowa for thirty years.

I gardened in East Des Moines with a 60x50 foot plot that could grow anything. I shared grocery bags full of corn, melons, peas, and greens with neighbors. I went back to Maine every year and sent Mary to visit my mother in Patten during summers. Those were special years.

Eventually, I moved to Sedona, Arizona, with my second husband, Dick Moore—a kind man, strong and gentle, who built us a beautiful home near the national forest. We hiked every week, and I worked only part-time, enjoying the sunshine and our two French kitties. Life was peaceful and full. Dick built two homes in Sedona, but the one we lived in was our haven. We had ten wonderful years before he passed in 2013.

That year, my brothers came and moved me back to Maine. Mary was living in St. Louis by then with her husband, Eric, a six-foot-tall bald man who’s just delightful. She had twin daughters, and Eric, though not their biological father, stepped up with grace and love. Mary eventually moved to Fort Fairfield to be closer to me. She now works remotely for the CIA, and her daughters—my granddaughters—are students at the University of Maine. One is even studying in Ireland this year!

These days, I’m living in a nursing home, but I’ve found peace here. The staff is kind, and God has opened doors for ministry. I felt the Spirit stir. I started devotional time at 10:00 AM with Wendy and Sharon, and we thoroughly enjoyed that time every day. We miss Wendy, though, after she left the nursing home. Wanting to learn more, we requested a weekly Bible study from Pastor Joyce and Houlton UMC. Thank you for letting us have Bible study every Friday. I am now praying for every Sunday service. I hope other churches will lead the service as the UMC leads every third week. Through all services, I feel I am a part of Houlton UMC! When I heard that I was like Moses in the nursing home by pastor Joyce, my heart was filled with joy. I’ve never received that many compliments. Praise the Lord!

I still love hymns like “Blessed Assurance” and “I Love to Tell the Story.” My mother’s favorite was “Abide with Me.” I remember singing it with her on the porch in those long Maine evenings. That’s something I miss—neighbors stopping by, sitting on porches, sharing songs and stories.

If I could say one thing to my family and to anyone who hears my story, it would be this: God loves us all. No matter what life brings, no matter where we’ve been or what we’ve done—He is there. That’s the truth I’ve carried all my life.

And as long as I’m here, I hope the church will keep 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.

Amen.