They say love is a verb. That support is more than sentiment. That gratitude should have feet, not just words. And yet, in the quiet spaces of life, there is a growing ache that whispers of one-sidedness. Of outstretched hands met with reluctance. Of poured-out vessels left empty.
It’s a tension as old as time—the disparity between what people say and what they do. Between the warmth of appreciation and the chill of inaction. Between grand declarations of love and the absence of tangible proof.
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:21)
Jesus spoke these words as part of His Sermon on the Mount, in a passage that warns against storing up treasures on earth—where moth and rust destroy, where thieves break in and steal. Instead, He calls us to store up treasures in heaven, investments that cannot decay or be taken away.
But there’s something profound in this statement beyond its heavenly implications. It is not merely about wealth; it is about devotion. About the undeniable link between what we truly care about and where we place our time, energy, and resources.
Where your treasure is—your money, your effort, your service, your sacrifice—that is where your heart truly resides.
We like to believe we are generous, that we are the kind of people who show up for others as they have shown up for us. But is that true? Do our actions align with the affections we profess? Or are we merely well-wishers—full of sentiment, void of sacrifice?
The hardest thing to reconcile is not that strangers might overlook us, but that those who have directly benefited from our kindness, who have eaten at our table, leaned on our shoulders, held onto our hands for support, often hesitate when the time comes to return even a fraction of what they have received. Not because they cannot, but because they do not.
It’s not about keeping score. It’s about the principle of reciprocity, the sacred rhythm of give and take, the natural order in which love is never meant to be hoarded but exchanged.
And perhaps that is the test of where our treasure truly lies. Because Jesus didn’t say, “Where your heart is, there your treasure will be.” No, He reversed it—your treasure leads your heart. It is not simply what we feel that determines what we invest in. It is what we invest in that determines where our heart goes.
We can say we love a cause, a mission, a person. But if we never invest in it—if it never costs us anything—can we truly say our hearts are in it?
Perhaps we don’t think about it enough—this chasm between our declarations and our deposits. We say we care, but do we show up? We say we believe in the work, but do we sow into it? We say we appreciate, but does that gratitude translate into action?
The weight of empty hands is heavy. Not just for those who receive nothing, but for those who give nothing. Because hands that withhold do not remain light; they grow burdened by the very thing they refuse to release.
What we do not give—whether time, love, support, or generosity—does not simply disappear. It lingers, accumulating like an unseen weight upon the heart. A clenched fist may feel like control, but in truth, it is a slow descent into stagnation.
Withholding is not just a loss for the one left empty-handed; it is a quiet erosion of the soul. Because we were never meant to hoard love or ration out kindness like a scarce commodity. We were meant to be conduits, not reservoirs. To live with open hands, not heavy ones.
And yet, beyond the weight we carry, there is the weight borne by the ones left waiting—the hands stretched in hope, the hearts made heavy by absence, the silent ache of unspoken disappointment. What keeps us from loosening our grip? What fear, what excuse, what quiet calculation holds us back from giving what we have so freely received?
Perhaps the real question is not just where is my treasure? but what is my treasure costing someone else?