"The Lord is My Shepherd" is Free on Kindle May 15th -19th

 

The Lord is My Shepherd: A Novel of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton is free on Kindle May 15th -19th. 

 

The Lord is My Shepherd: A Novel of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton by Anne Faye is a lovely story of a courageous woman who loved God, overcame suffering, and pursued the truth relentlessly.  

She supported and raised five children as a widow and went on to found schools and a religious order. 

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. An easy and comfortable read, it held my attention from start to finish. I think adults, young adults, and even teens would profit from reading it. 

- Rosemary Bogdan, on CatholicMom.com

An excerpt from The Lord is My Shepherd

Chapter One

I entered this world on August 28, 1774, the second daughter of Dr. Richard and Catherine Bayley. My mother was the daughter of Rev. Richard Charleton, the rector of St. Andrew’s Episcopalian Church on Staten Island. I sometimes wonder how my life might have been different had my mother lived longer than she did. I was only three when she died soon after giving birth to my younger sister, her namesake, whom we called Kitty, in May of 1777.

I only have one memory of my mother. I was curled up in her lap as she read me Goody Two-Shoes, a children’s story about a poor orphan girl who receives a gift of a shoe. She grows up to be a teacher and then marries a rich man. I can’t even recall the sound of my mother’s voice, but I remember her warmth and the clean smell of her clothes. I know of her appearance from the miniature my father had of her, which he claimed was a fair likeness, but she is like a shadow to me, more of a feeling than anything else. However, that feeling is one of love.

My father, who had been serving as a surgeon in the British army during the Revolutionary War, left his post and returned home to Manhattan. I soon had a new stepmother, Charlotte Amelia Barclay. She was young and pretty. Both her parents had died. She needed a husband, while my father needed someone to care for my sisters and me, so we all had a new life together.

Those early days are mostly a blur, but when my sister Kitty died at the age of two, I was jealous of her.

“Why aren’t you crying?” someone asked me as we laid her to rest.

“Why would I cry?” I asked. “She’s in heaven with Momma.”

I wanted to be with Momma, too. Why did Kitty get to go and not me? They were the thoughts of a child. I had not yet learned to accept God’s will. To be honest, I still struggle to accept God’s will sometimes, but I suppose I have made some progress.

My new mother wasn’t unkind. She was a woman of faith who taught me to pray and had me memorize the twenty-third psalm. The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want . . . How many times have I repeated those words in my life? How much comfort have they given me? Regardless of all that came after, I will forever be thankful that she taught me that psalm.

I soon had younger siblings, the fruit of my father’s new union. Looking back, I can see that my stepmother was one of those women who struggle with motherhood. My father was busy with his work, and she was often alone with all of us. She was unhappy and anxious. I know that now and can remember her with compassion and understanding, but at the time, I was only a child and knew that my older sister, Mary, and I were not loved in the same way the younger children were. When I was home, I helped care for them as best I could, but I often resented the responsibility.

Fortunately, Mary and I were often sent away to our uncle and aunt’s home in New Rochelle. I missed my father, but when I was with William and Sarah Bayley, I attended school, studied French, and played piano. Even at that young age, I relished reading and thinking about the ideas the books contained. There was always something new to learn.

They had five children of their own, and Mary and I enjoyed playing with our cousins. I especially loved little Anne, who was the youngest. I loved holding her and helping her as she learned to walk. I don’t know why it was different there than in our own home, which was also full of young children, but it was. Their house was full of love and laughter. It felt like a true home. I’m so thankful for the care and kindness my uncle and aunt showed to me.

Even then, though, I realized that I was different from other girls. My schoolmates would play a game where they would gather up bird eggs from their nests and destroy them. I couldn’t understand why they would do that. How could being so cruel bring them joy? I tried to rescue as many of the eggs as I could. I would put them on a bed of leaves and hope that their mothers would find them.

I soon decided that I was better off alone than trying to be friends with those girls. I would go for walks by the shore and collect shells. I would look at the clouds and search for my mother and Kitty. I thought that if only I could look hard enough, I might see them. I was disappointed that despite all my efforts, I never did.

From time to time in my youth, I would return home to Manhattan. My father was always busy with his work as a doctor. He and his colleagues broke the law by doing research on cadavers. When I was thirteen years old, a mob attacked New York Hospital, where he worked.

They were not content with attacking the hospital, however. They also attacked the doctors’ homes. My father was taken into protective custody, but I hid in our house, terrified, praying the Our Father throughout the night as the mob made its way through the streets. The militia fired on the angry men, and three were killed. The rest dispersed before they had the opportunity to make their way to our home.

My father defended the scientific practice. How else were the doctors going to learn how to treat patients and save lives? However, he always maintained there had been no body snatching. My father’s pursuits in service to the greater good were sometimes messy business. Despite his protests, his specimens were removed, and he was fined. Later that year, he went to England, and I was once again sent to New Rochelle for a while.

By this time, my older sister, Mary, was being courted by Wright Post, a young doctor, so I went to my uncle and aunt’s house alone. I received few letters from my father. It wasn’t surprising, considering how far apart we were, but I longed for his love. Sometimes, I feared he might be dead and that I was now an orphan. My uncle was kind, but I needed a father.

I once again found solace in nature and the stars. I delighted in reading the Bible, Thomson, and Milton. I would walk through the trees and sing hymns of praise. I knew that even if my earthly father was absent, God was my Father. I prayed that he would never forsake me.

While I was there, I heard some evangelical preachers who had a great influence on my young soul. Among them were Thomas Ware and Peter Moriarty. They were both Methodists. The other young people in attendance often wept and trembled as they responded to God’s grace and mercy. When they sang the hymn “And am I Only Born to Die?” it spoke to me in a deep way. From a young age, I have often thought about death and what lies beyond this plane in which we live.

When I returned to Manhattan after my father came back from abroad, I was on the cusp of womanhood.

 The Lord is My Shepherd is available on Amazon.