I’m Blessed, or So They Think

Every morning, before the first cock crows, I whisper a prayer. I kneel beside my narrow bed, eyes half-open, lips trembling with words I’ve repeated so many times they sound rehearsed. “Thank you, Lord, for grace.” Grace. It’s the word I use for everything these days. When my pockets are full, it’s grace. When I get away with something, it’s still grace.

The neighborhood sees me as the righteous man—the one who doesn’t shout, doesn’t drink, doesn’t curse. I wear my faith like a uniform. But behind that holy composure, I’m just a man trying to make a little extra from the cracks of other people’s trust.

I work for Mr. K, a man whose wealth is older than his wisdom. I drive his cars, run his errands, handle his shopping, even drop his kids at school. I’m always in a suit and a quiet smile. People assume I’m blessed. If only they knew the kind of blessings I count.

The Gospel According to Opportunity

I’m at the supermarket again—Madam’s grocery list in my hand, and a plan quietly forming in my head. The attendants already know me. Terry, the bubbly one at the counter, greets me with that sly grin of shared secrecy.

“Same list, huh?” she asks, scanning the items.

“Almost,” I reply, leaning closer. “Add two extra cartons of milk and some imported juice. Madam likes those.”

She nods, but we both know those juices aren’t for Madam. They’re for my wife—the woman who thinks God answers prayers through my errands. Every time she opens those juices, she murmurs, “The Lord provides.”

I don’t correct her. Why would I? It’s easier to let God take the credit for my quiet crimes.

When I drive back, I split the load cleanly—one for home, one for work, one for “overflow.” I unload them with grace, always smiling, always composed. Madam thanks me for being thorough. I tell her, “It’s my duty, Madam. The Lord keeps me diligent.”

And she believes me. They all do.

Madam’s Eyes and the Lingering Perfume

Madam K is a different kind of test—the kind my pastor never warned me about. She’s elegant, soft-spoken, and lonely in the way rich people often are. She sits in the back seat with her phone, pretending to scroll, but her reflection on the window tells me otherwise. She’s looking at me.

Sometimes she asks about my faith. “Do you really pray every day?” she says, her tone light but curious.

“Yes, Madam. Every morning,” I answer, eyes on the road.

She smiles. “You must be a very loyal man.”

“I try,” I say, my voice caught somewhere between conviction and discomfort.

But loyalty has limits, especially when temptation smells like expensive perfume and speaks in polite half-sentences. I’ve never crossed the line—but I’ve stood on it, feeling it shake beneath my feet.

One evening, she tips me generously, her fingers brushing mine. My heart stutters. I thank her, pretending it’s nothing, but that touch lingers longer than the prayer I say later that night.

When my wife asks where the extra money came from, I tell her what I always tell her: “Grace.”

Smuggling Grace in the Trunk

Not everything I carry is holy. Sometimes, Mr. K sends me on private errands—boxes I’m told not to open, bottles wrapped too neatly to be water, envelopes that carry secrets heavier than cash. I don’t ask questions; I just drive.

But every time I look at those things in the rearview mirror, I feel my stomach twist. One small mistake, one checkpoint, and the holy driver turns into a headline. Still, I do it. Because at home, the rent doesn’t pray itself, and my wife’s faith thrives best when there’s meat on the table.

At church, I kneel in the second pew, hands trembling as I raise them toward heaven. When the pastor says, “The truth shall set you free,” I almost laugh. Freedom, to me, feels like a luxury—something I can’t afford yet.

The Whisper of Exposure

Lately, I’ve been catching Madam’s tone change. She looks at me differently—like she’s holding onto something she hasn’t said.

Last week, she called me after work. Her voice was calm, too calm.

“I know what you’ve been doing,” she said, her words slicing through the quiet.

My chest tightened. “Madam?”

She smiled faintly, almost indulgently. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell. But you should pray harder. Grace might run out.”

And then she left, leaving behind that perfume again, sweet and dangerous.

Still Calling It Grace

Now, every time I drive through the gate, I feel a weight in my chest. The guards wave, I smile, but my mind races. My world is held together by silence and timing. One whisper could undo it all.

At home, my wife is humming a hymn, arranging the groceries. “God has been good,” she says.

I nod, watching her. “Yes,” I whisper. “Very good.”

But when I lie down that night, the darkness feels heavier than usual. I’m praying again—half to God, half to my luck. I’m still faithful, yes. But I know my faith has very little to do with the life I’m living.

The next errand is tomorrow. And maybe, just maybe, it will be the one that tips everything over.

Until then, I’m still driving. Still smiling. Still calling it grace.