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| The Empty Chair |
Every year the table was set — even when hope felt far away. The Empty Chair tells the story of a family’s unwavering faith and the Christmas they’ll never forget. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
The smell of cinnamon and roasted ham drifted through the Stallworth farmhouse as snowflakes whispered against the windows. Laughter rose from the kitchen, mingling with the clatter of serving spoons and the high-pitched squeals of excited grandchildren. The long oak table was nearly set for Christmas dinner, decked with red cloth napkins, antique china, and flickering white candles.
At the far end, one chair remained untouched.
Samuel Stallworth stood at its side, staring down at the polished wood as though it might speak. A plate had been set. A cloth napkin folded. But no one would sit there. Not unless a miracle happened.
“Still setting it?” came Ruth’s gentle voice from behind him — his wife of 37 years, with quiet strength in her eyes.
“I don’t know how not to,” Samuel said, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the chair. “It's his seat. Always was.”
“It’s been six years, Sam.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He looked up. “You don’t stop leaving the door open for your child. No matter how long they’ve been gone.”
Ruth hesitated, then rested a hand on his back. “I prayed again this morning. For his heart. And yours.”
Samuel raised her hand to his mouth and planted a soft kiss.
The family didn’t know where Micah was. Messages went unread, calls went unanswered. Rumors came and went — someone thought they saw him in Memphis, another in Atlanta. No one could confirm. But every Christmas since, that chair remained empty. And every Christmas, Samuel set the table for one more, waiting.
__
The last time they saw Micah, voices had echoed through this house, not laughter. Accusations. Ultimatums. Micah had told his father he wouldn’t take over the farm — said he was in love with Jenna Cade — daughter of Martin Cade, a ruthless developer who’d tried to buy up Stallworth land for years. They wanted to be together and make a life for themselves.
Samuel had seen that as betrayal. Micah had seen it as freedom.
“You’d rather see me married to this farm than be happy!” Micah had shouted.
“I’d rather see you be a man!” Samuel had fired back. “One who honors where he came from!”
___
As guests gathered and the sun dipped low behind the bare trees, the family circled for prayer. They held hands — little ones with sticky fingers, teenagers with half-closed eyes, elders with hands worn by time and work.
“Father,” Samuel said, his voice thick with age and emotion, “thank You for this day. Thank You for every soul gathered here, for health, for home, for hope. Thank You for this season that brings us back together. We ask You to bless this meal, and bless the ones not with us tonight — especially Micah. Wherever he is, Lord, remind him of Your love. Remind him of ours. Bring him home, in Your time.”
A hushed “Amen” followed.
Plates were passed. Turkey carved. Rolls devoured. Laughter returned, tentative at first, then growing stronger. Memories of Micah surfaced — funny ones, sweet ones — and no one hushed them. Not anymore.
“He used to eat all the sweet potatoes before anyone else could get a second helping,” someone said.
“He made up that ridiculous song about gravy,” someone else laughed, and soon they were all singing it, off-key and teary-eyed.
Even Elise, who had been ten when her brother left, chimed in with, “He taught me how to sneak cookies from the top shelf. Said it was ‘survival training.’”
The stories flowed like healing balm. Not erasing the ache, but softening its sharpness. Each tale stitched a bit more thread into the frayed fabric of hope.
Outside, the wind picked up. A dusting of snow blew in swirls across the porch. Then came the sound — soft at first — of tires crunching gravel.
Elise was the first to notice. She rose, peering through the frosted window.
“There’s a car,” she whispered. “It stopped by the gate.”
Conversations stalled. Forks paused midair.
Samuel stood, his heart pounding louder than it had in years. His eyes met his wife’s — her face pale, lips trembling. A flicker of faith passed between them.
Footsteps on the porch. Then — a knock at the door.
It was soft. Hesitant.
All heads turned.
Elise, Micah’s younger sister, froze mid-step. “Did someone invite anyone else?”
“No,” Ruth whispered.
Samuel’s heart thumped.
He crossed to the door, each step heavy. When he opened it, the cold swept in — along with five years of silence.
There stood Micah.
His hair was longer. A few strands of gray near the temple. His navy blue coat was dusted with snow, and his eyes — those same deep brown eyes from childhood — looked both nervous and hopeful.
But what drew Samuel’s gaze next was the small boy standing beside him, clutching his father’s hand and looking up at him with curiosity. He was around six years old. He had black curls under a wool cap and the same eyes as his father had, back when he was that age.
“Hi, Dad,” Micah said. His voice cracked.
No one moved. Then a sharp gasp escaped from Ruth behind Samuel, followed by a trembling hand to her mouth.
“I didn’t know if you'd... I mean, I shouldn’t just show up. I get that. I wouldn’t blame you if—”
Micah’s breath fogged in the cold air. His grip tightened on his son’s hand.
“Micah,” Samuel interrupted. His voice was low, gruff.
Micah stiffened. Shielded Zach instinctively.
Then Samuel looked up at his son, eyes swimming. “You came home.”
“I didn’t know how,” Micah said. “After everything... after Jenna left, I—”
Samuel stood slowly. “You didn’t have to know how. You just had to want to.”
Micah’s voice broke. “I was so angry. But you were right about some things. I was proud. I wanted to prove you wrong more than I wanted to keep us right.”
“And I was stubborn,” Samuel said. “Too proud to say I was scared. Scared of losing my son to something I didn’t understand.”
They stood in silence, words not enough. Then Samuel reached out and pulled Micah into a rough embrace.
Samuel wiped a tear away, then looked at the boy with wonder. “And who’s this little guy?”
“This is Zachary, my son. Your grandson.”
Behind them, the family hushed whispers gave way to excited murmurs and children delighted giggles.
Samuel did something Micah didn’t expect. He stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
“Hey there, Zachary,” Samuel said softly. “I’m your granddaddy.”
Zach looked up at his father, who nodded slowly. Then the boy reached out, shyly, and Samuel pulled him into his arms.
From the hallway, Ruth sobbed quietly, hand over her heart. She glanced up toward heaven. “Thank You, Lord,”
Later, at the table, Zach sat between Ruth and Elise, already sneaking an extra dinner roll.
Micah lingered at the side, unsure.
Samuel motioned to the head chair — the empty one.
“I kept it set,” he said.
Micah’s throat tightened. “You still believed I’d come?”
Samuel gave a quiet smile. “I kept the faith. Just like the father in the good book — watching the road, waiting for his son. So, I left the chair.”
Micah sat slowly, swallowing back tears. His son laughed beside him. Plates were passed again. The room buzzed with warmth and wonder.
And this time, the chair wasn’t empty.
It overflowed.
With grace.
With family.
With home.
The seat was empty. The Prayer never did.
