A British author had a cat named Jones that she jokingly called her spiritual director. When Jones encountered an aggressive cat in the yard, he would run terrified to the window and press his face against it, begging her for help.  

Caryll Houselander wrote: “I let him in and no sooner had he jumped on my lap than he relaxed, he went limp, and indicated by various signs known to me that he wanted his ears scratched—that done, he went to sleep.” She learned from Jones how to approach God, trusting he will care for us and protect us.  

Trust can be a hard lesson for some children to learn. When my sister and I were toddlers, my mom said goodbye each morning and headed to work as a teacher. We were left with a series of babysitters, whom we didn’t trust. We didn’t understand why the woman we loved more than anyone in the world, would leave us with strangers.  

Later, when I went to school, I became wary of physical education teachers. I was terrified when the teacher expected her little charges to run across the field and leap over a high barrier. You see, I was chubby and awkward, and I would run straight for the hurdle and then stop in my tracks. The other kids snickered and snorted at my failures.  

When the tumbling mat was unrolled, I was equally frightened and hoped an earthquake or tornado would disrupt the class. That didn’t happen, of course, so when my turn came, I stepped on the mat and bungled a forward roll, which my classmates found hilarious.  

On some days, the class headed to the swimming pool, where the instructor taught us diving. Invariably, I ended up doing belly flops, and I can still feel the sting, as my body hit water that had become a slab of cement. Fortunately, on weekends there were no students to make fun of me and no teachers to criticize me. I loved floating on my back with the sun warming my face. I relaxed and fully trusted the water to support me.  

I recently read about a little boy, who was given the chance to hear his heart beating through a stethoscope. His first reaction was: “That’s Jesus!” The simple, trusting words of a child express the deepest truth about our lives. The Lord is as close as our own hearts.  

But this is a truth I didn’t understand as a child. The sisters gently taught us about trusting God, but I pictured him as a grumpy old man in the sky. He was like the teacher who frowned when I flopped around on the mat and the teacher who was disappointed at my feeble attempts at diving.  

Sadly, our childhood disappointments can cloud the real truth about God. We may be pleasantly ensconced in a cozy chair, sipping tea and munching on cookies. We breathe deeply and sense God’s loving presence. And then we think: “Well, sure, I’m fine now, but what about tomorrow and next week and next year? Will he be there for me?” 

If we can turn off the mental worry machine, we can more easily trust God. He is certainly not the grumpy old man in the sky. His love is as steady as the rising and falling of the tides. He knows our limitations and our lights.  

He doesn’t expect us to jump high hurdles or make dazzling dives. He is the water beneath the swimmer and the sweet sun on her face. We can rest upon his lap like a contented cat.  

My prayer is simple enough. Lord, please help me to stop worrying. Let me meet you in the haven of my heart. Let me echo the little boy who said: “That’s Jesus!”