There is a strange kind of hunger that has nothing to do with food. It’s the hunger that grows when you serve love and receive indifference. The hunger that aches when the hands that bless the offering on Sunday cannot bless a life on Monday. I met that hunger in Karen — and its face was that of a smiling miser.
She smiled often, my employer. Her teeth were white, her lips painted in modest pink, her eyes bright with a confidence only wealth can polish. On Sunday mornings, she would glide through her house in a dress of calm authority, Bible in hand, handbag dangling like a crown jewel. I would open the gate for her, and she would say, “God bless you,” her tone soft, her eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name. To anyone watching, she was the image of Christian grace. But grace is not in words — it’s in what remains when words are done.
She had perfected what I later called the holy smile. It was a smile that said, “I am good,” even when her goodness stopped at her lips. It was the kind of smile that could bless you while keeping you hungry. She smiled when she gave instructions. She smiled when she corrected. She smiled when she dismissed your pain as exaggeration. Her smile was her shield. Behind it lived a heart that had grown tight with possession — a heart that loved God loudly but people quietly.
I learned early that misers don’t always look miserable. They live in beauty, dress in elegance, and talk in Scripture. They say “The Lord will provide,” but only after hoarding everything the Lord provided through others. They give testimonies about how God blessed them, forgetting the people who labored to make those blessings possible. They call it stewardship; I call it sanctified selfishness.
Sometimes, when guests visited, she would invite me to serve them tea. “Bring the best cups,” she would say. And I would carry the delicate China with trembling hands, careful not to stain her image of perfection. The guests would sit, talk about faith, and admire her decor. They would say, “You are such a generous woman,” and she would smile that smile — wide, radiant, convincing. They never knew the woman who cleaned those cups was not allowed to drink from them. They never saw the one who washed the plates but ate from plastic.
I once overheard her say, “I like to keep my home in order. God loves order.” But I learned that in her world, order meant hierarchy — not harmony. It meant knowing your place and never crossing invisible lines. It meant gratitude for crumbs and silence in pain. And yet, every night she prayed, “Lord, make me a vessel of your love.”
I used to wonder, what kind of love is this that feeds the self and starves the soul of another? What kind of faith finds peace in the suffering of those beneath it? I came to realize something profound — that miserliness is not only a habit of the pocket but also of the heart. A miser’s heart cannot give because it has forgotten how to feel. The same way money clings to their fingers, control clings to their spirit.
Her world was built on control. She controlled her house, her image, her narrative. She could preach about charity to the poor while being blind to the poverty in her own kitchen. And she was not alone. I saw many like her in the church — people who gave tithes faithfully but never compassion generously. They filled offering baskets but emptied hearts. They measured righteousness by how clean their prayers sounded, not by how kind their actions were.
In church, she sat in the front pew. Her hands lifted, her voice sweet with hymns. She looked like holiness itself. People would turn to her for counsel, believing wisdom lived in her words. But wisdom without empathy is just well-dressed arrogance. Her advice was always neat but never warm. “Pray about it,” she would say to those struggling, as if prayer alone replaced kindness. To her, poverty was a sign of laziness; service was proof of inferiority. And in that belief, she saw herself not as part of the problem but as a proof of success.
One afternoon, after a Sunday service, she invited her church friends for lunch. I worked the kitchen all morning — chopping onions, marinating meat, preparing salads. The aroma filled the house like incense. The laughter of her guests filled the dining room. But when it was time to eat, she said, “You can rest now.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching plates pass by — golden rice, roasted beef, fresh juice — and I smiled back at her holy smile. I rested, as she said, but rest without food is not rest. It’s another form of fasting you never chose.
I thought about Jesus then — how He broke bread with His disciples. How He washed their feet instead of making them wash His. I wondered what He would have said had He walked into that house. Would He have sat at her table or mine? Would He have blessed the meat or the heart behind it?
Maybe that is why His words about the widow’s mite ring so true — because He measured giving not by the amount, but by the spirit. The miser gives from abundance; the compassionate give from empathy. The holy smile gives comfort to others’ eyes, but not to others’ lives.
There was a day her car broke down. I remember how frantic she became. She prayed loudly, rebuking the devil for “attacking her blessings.” I offered to help, suggested we call a mechanic nearby. She nodded, and when the problem was fixed, she smiled and said, “See how God is good?” I wanted to tell her God’s goodness often wears human faces. But in her theology, helpers are invisible. Gratitude was for heaven, not for humans.
I carried that moment in my heart for days. I realized that spiritual arrogance is the worst kind of poverty — because it blinds you to the sacredness of others. You start believing you are the only one God listens to, the only one God blesses. You build altars in your name and call them testimonies. And all the while, those around you are bleeding in silence.
I used to envy her life — her house, her comfort, her confidence. But with time, I saw that misers are prisoners of their own fear. They hoard because they believe love can be lost. They keep because they think giving makes them weak. They protect what they have, not knowing that greed is the only thief they should fear. A miser’s wealth is like water in a closed jar — it breeds insects, not life.
The holy smile hides exhaustion. It hides fear of being found out — fear that beneath the prayers and perfume lies emptiness. That the same hands lifted in worship cannot lift another from despair. The smile becomes a mask, polished for the world, worn for applause. And behind it, the miser’s heart whispers, “I am generous because I say I am.”
But love is not self-declared. It is proven in the way you feed the hungry, honor the servant, and treat the unseen. You cannot be holy and heartless. You cannot be Christian and cruel. You cannot raise your hands to heaven while stepping on the hungry on your way there.
I began to see holiness differently. It was not in her smile or her prayers. It was in small acts — in the neighbor who shared sugar with the house help, in the guard who gave me roasted maize during my evening shift, in the stranger who said, “God bless you,” and meant it. These were the true saints — the unannounced, the unpolished, the unnamed.
The miser in her was not born overnight. It was grown — watered by a world that celebrates possession over compassion, appearance over authenticity, religion over relationship. And yet, even misers can change. For I learned something in those days — that hunger, both physical and spiritual, eventually reveals truth. You can hide greed behind holiness for a season, but hunger unmasks it all.
Now, years later, I sometimes think of her when I see people worship with perfect smiles. I wonder what their maids are eating. I wonder what their drivers feel. I wonder if their holiness is heavy with humanity or hollow with hypocrisy.
The miser taught me one thing without meaning to — that love must touch the ground. If it does not feed, it fails. If it does not lift, it lies. If it cannot make room at the table, then it is not love at all.
She smiled often, my employer. Her teeth were white, her lips painted in modest pink, her eyes bright with a confidence only wealth can polish. On Sunday mornings, she would glide through her house in a dress of calm authority, Bible in hand, handbag dangling like a crown jewel. I would open the gate for her, and she would say, “God bless you,” her tone soft, her eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name. To anyone watching, she was the image of Christian grace. But grace is not in words — it’s in what remains when words are done.
She had perfected what I later called the holy smile. It was a smile that said, “I am good,” even when her goodness stopped at her lips. It was the kind of smile that could bless you while keeping you hungry. She smiled when she gave instructions. She smiled when she corrected. She smiled when she dismissed your pain as exaggeration. Her smile was her shield. Behind it lived a heart that had grown tight with possession — a heart that loved God loudly but people quietly.
I learned early that misers don’t always look miserable. They live in beauty, dress in elegance, and talk in Scripture. They say “The Lord will provide,” but only after hoarding everything the Lord provided through others. They give testimonies about how God blessed them, forgetting the people who labored to make those blessings possible. They call it stewardship; I call it sanctified selfishness.
Sometimes, when guests visited, she would invite me to serve them tea. “Bring the best cups,” she would say. And I would carry the delicate China with trembling hands, careful not to stain her image of perfection. The guests would sit, talk about faith, and admire her decor. They would say, “You are such a generous woman,” and she would smile that smile — wide, radiant, convincing. They never knew the woman who cleaned those cups was not allowed to drink from them. They never saw the one who washed the plates but ate from plastic.
I once overheard her say, “I like to keep my home in order. God loves order.” But I learned that in her world, order meant hierarchy — not harmony. It meant knowing your place and never crossing invisible lines. It meant gratitude for crumbs and silence in pain. And yet, every night she prayed, “Lord, make me a vessel of your love.”
I used to wonder, what kind of love is this that feeds the self and starves the soul of another? What kind of faith finds peace in the suffering of those beneath it? I came to realize something profound — that miserliness is not only a habit of the pocket but also of the heart. A miser’s heart cannot give because it has forgotten how to feel. The same way money clings to their fingers, control clings to their spirit.
Her world was built on control. She controlled her house, her image, her narrative. She could preach about charity to the poor while being blind to the poverty in her own kitchen. And she was not alone. I saw many like her in the church — people who gave tithes faithfully but never compassion generously. They filled offering baskets but emptied hearts. They measured righteousness by how clean their prayers sounded, not by how kind their actions were.
In church, she sat in the front pew. Her hands lifted, her voice sweet with hymns. She looked like holiness itself. People would turn to her for counsel, believing wisdom lived in her words. But wisdom without empathy is just well-dressed arrogance. Her advice was always neat but never warm. “Pray about it,” she would say to those struggling, as if prayer alone replaced kindness. To her, poverty was a sign of laziness; service was proof of inferiority. And in that belief, she saw herself not as part of the problem but as a proof of success.
One afternoon, after a Sunday service, she invited her church friends for lunch. I worked the kitchen all morning — chopping onions, marinating meat, preparing salads. The aroma filled the house like incense. The laughter of her guests filled the dining room. But when it was time to eat, she said, “You can rest now.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching plates pass by — golden rice, roasted beef, fresh juice — and I smiled back at her holy smile. I rested, as she said, but rest without food is not rest. It’s another form of fasting you never chose.
I thought about Jesus then — how He broke bread with His disciples. How He washed their feet instead of making them wash His. I wondered what He would have said had He walked into that house. Would He have sat at her table or mine? Would He have blessed the meat or the heart behind it?
Maybe that is why His words about the widow’s mite ring so true — because He measured giving not by the amount, but by the spirit. The miser gives from abundance; the compassionate give from empathy. The holy smile gives comfort to others’ eyes, but not to others’ lives.
There was a day her car broke down. I remember how frantic she became. She prayed loudly, rebuking the devil for “attacking her blessings.” I offered to help, suggested we call a mechanic nearby. She nodded, and when the problem was fixed, she smiled and said, “See how God is good?” I wanted to tell her God’s goodness often wears human faces. But in her theology, helpers are invisible. Gratitude was for heaven, not for humans.
I carried that moment in my heart for days. I realized that spiritual arrogance is the worst kind of poverty — because it blinds you to the sacredness of others. You start believing you are the only one God listens to, the only one God blesses. You build altars in your name and call them testimonies. And all the while, those around you are bleeding in silence.
I used to envy her life — her house, her comfort, her confidence. But with time, I saw that misers are prisoners of their own fear. They hoard because they believe love can be lost. They keep because they think giving makes them weak. They protect what they have, not knowing that greed is the only thief they should fear. A miser’s wealth is like water in a closed jar — it breeds insects, not life.
The holy smile hides exhaustion. It hides fear of being found out — fear that beneath the prayers and perfume lies emptiness. That the same hands lifted in worship cannot lift another from despair. The smile becomes a mask, polished for the world, worn for applause. And behind it, the miser’s heart whispers, “I am generous because I say I am.”
But love is not self-declared. It is proven in the way you feed the hungry, honor the servant, and treat the unseen. You cannot be holy and heartless. You cannot be Christian and cruel. You cannot raise your hands to heaven while stepping on the hungry on your way there.
I began to see holiness differently. It was not in her smile or her prayers. It was in small acts — in the neighbor who shared sugar with the house help, in the guard who gave me roasted maize during my evening shift, in the stranger who said, “God bless you,” and meant it. These were the true saints — the unannounced, the unpolished, the unnamed.
The miser in her was not born overnight. It was grown — watered by a world that celebrates possession over compassion, appearance over authenticity, religion over relationship. And yet, even misers can change. For I learned something in those days — that hunger, both physical and spiritual, eventually reveals truth. You can hide greed behind holiness for a season, but hunger unmasks it all.
Now, years later, I sometimes think of her when I see people worship with perfect smiles. I wonder what their maids are eating. I wonder what their drivers feel. I wonder if their holiness is heavy with humanity or hollow with hypocrisy.
The miser taught me one thing without meaning to — that love must touch the ground. If it does not feed, it fails. If it does not lift, it lies. If it cannot make room at the table, then it is not love at all.
