My husband Jerry and I are cat lovers. Between the two of us, we’ve been owned by dozens of cats in our lifetimes. Right now, we have four. Our youngest, Biscuit, came to us about 18 months ago. You should have seen him, the day we adopted him: five months old and completely terrorized by the bright lights, loud noises, and crowds of Adoption Day at Petsmart, cowering and quaking in the miniature litter dish the SPCA had put into his cage. He weighed four pounds, and I could hold him easily in my cupped hands.

The poor little thing (as I write, almost two and still small) has had a lot of trauma in his short life. The Biscuit had been feral from the day he was born until he was rescued a few weeks before he came to us; since that time, they told me, he had been in “about 20” foster homes. A few months after he joined our family, he was diagnosed with heart disease, which has meant constant trips to the vet. He’s the smartest cat I’ve ever even heard of; every stratagem I’ve been able to think up to capture him to take him to the vet has worked exactly once. (Well, of course; aside from being afraid of the bright lights, loud noises, and needles, he thinks he’s going to be given away yet again. I hope that means he’s finally happy with us.)

Since we moved to St. Petersburg, FL, in August 1999, I’ve been giving the Biscuit a little break from all the vets, but his cardiologist said last spring that he would need to be checked again any time now. Moving to St. Pete has been good for him — the move meant he spent about four days in his cat carrier, and he wasn’t given away to cold, cruel strangers even once. His humans are still with him.

The Biscuit is still a skittish little boy at best. The sound of ice falling into the ice maker’s bin in the freezer routinely causes him to flee (you just can’t trust those ice makers, you know). So does the sight of me or Jerry wearing street clothes. He still spends much of his day in hiding. One of his rare visits to my lap is cause for much praise and rejoicing.

The other night, emboldened by the fact that he has never been scooped up and carted off to the vet after 10 p.m., Biscuit came out of hiding and began sniffing around the living room. I said to him, “Biscuit, you know, if you were to come and sit in my lap, I would hold you and pet you and call you sweet names.” He looked at me skeptically. “It’s true,” I said, and put out my hand to be sniffed. “I would never hurt a poor little pussycat. I would hold you and pet you and call you sweet names. That’s my job with pussycats, and I’m good at it.” But I moved too fast. Biscuit jumped as though he had seen a ghost, ran to the other side of the room, and sat and stared at me. I did not try to force my love on him; I just told him about it. Whereupon he said the kitten version of “harumph!” and went off to see whether there was any leftover supper.

I’m telling you all this because that’s when it hit me: my relationship with Biscuit is like Godde’s relationship with humanity. Godde yearns to express Godde’s love for us. In The Color Purple, the wisest of the characters says, “People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see [Godde] always trying to please us back.” Whether it’s the stunning beauty of the view from the Skyway Bridge, the taste of fresh-squeezed orange juice, the sound of a child’s laughter, the smell of night- blooming jasmine, or the way the Gulf caresses your skin on a hot summer’s day, Godde is always trying to please us back.

Godde says to each one of us, “If only you would come to me, I would hold you and pet you and call you sweet names.” And we look at Godde skeptically — and if Godde makes the slightest “wrong” move, we flee in terror.

We all of us need to learn that the truly horrible things that happen to us in our lives are never never never never caused by Godde, but rather by some other creation to which Godde has given free will, whether it’s a mugger or a microbe, a pest or a politician. Some of the painful things that happen to us may be caused by Godde — I’m responsible for all those terrifying visits to the vet, after all! — but inevitably, the pain that Godde is responsible for is For Our Own Good. (Some consolation!)

But if only we could learn to relax, to trust Godde, and to turn to Godde freely, Godde would hold us and pet us and call us sweet names. It’s what Godde yearns to do. That’s God’s job, or at least part of it — and boy, is Godde ever good at it!