In The Seven Storey Mountain, Thomas Merton comments that good people are usually hidden. I'm convinced he's right.

What convinced me was a woman named Olive. Olive grew up poor, in rural West Virginia, in a shotgun house that rattled every time the train went by. She married young, and her husband died suddenly, leaving her a house full of kids to feed. As Olive neared retirement age, she had no money to speak of, so she took a job in a nursing home. She would walk to work, stiff from her arthritis, and then descend to the nursing-home basement, to the sweltering laundry room, and wash and dry linens soiled by the old and incontinent.

Because she loved kids, Olive would also baby-sit. She'd walk in our house like Mary Poppins, laden with bags of crafts and videos. Crying babies were music to her; she'd take a caterwauling infant and magically soothe it to sleep.

I would drive Olive home and watch her climb, with difficulty, to her second-floor apartment. Then she'd give me a hug and a big smile and say good night. Many times as I walked down to my car, I would shake my head. I have seen Olive worried—about medical bills—but I've never heard her complain. I've never seen her be anything but sunny and grateful for her lot.

Then the Holy Spirit would convict me: I have a great working atmosphere and wonderful health coverage, and yet I'm routinely ungrateful. I was in the presence of someone good, and her very life flushed out what was not good in me.

Yes, God hides the good. He seems to delight in taking his treasures and placing them not in a display case in the living room but in a dark corner of a drawer.