Echoes of Faith: The Empty Chair| Flash Fiction

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.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

The seat was empty. The Prayer never did.

Echoes of Faith: Lucy at the Steps| Flash Fiction

 

 

Lucy at the Steps

Monty, a grieving widower whose Sunday routine is interrupted by an unexpected visitor: a quiet dog with one flopped ear and a patient heart. Through her steady presence, Monty begins to see that God’s grace doesn’t always knock—it sometimes waits. Scroll down to begin.

In Miami, the sun rose with a practiced brightness, warm even in October. Monty stood at the kitchen sink, letting the water run longer than necessary, just to hear something. His phone buzzed on the counter—CJ, right on schedule.

He dried his hands, answered.

“You headed to church today, Dad?”

“Yeah,” Monty said. “I’m getting ready now.”

CJ’s voice softened. “Okay. Text me after, all right?”

“I will.”

He didn’t mention that he'd nearly stayed in bed this time. That for ten months, he had gone mostly out of habit—since Vivian’s funeral, since the casseroles and the pitying looks and the awkward silences at fellowship hour. Sunday mornings had become the most hollow part of the week. But he kept showing up. It’s what Vivian would have wanted. She’d always believed healing happened in the going, even when you didn’t feel like it.

He pulled on the gray suit she used to press, though the crease had long since faded. Outside, the Miami air was thick with late-season humidity, and the jacaranda trees along his street rustled faintly in the breeze.

He parked in his usual spot at the small brick church, engine ticking as it cooled. And that’s when he saw her.

A dog—medium-sized, maybe a lab or hound mix, fur the color of worn leather—curled at the base of the church steps.. One ear flopped, the other alert. Not a puppy, not frail. Just… waiting. Her eyes lifted to meet his, soft brown and steady. She didn’t move. Didn’t bark. Just watched, like she was waiting to see if he recognized her.

He paused, hand on the door. Some part of him wanted to speak. Instead, he went inside, where the sanctuary still smelled of lemon oil and old hymnals. And grief.

-

After the benediction, he hesitated near the back pew, pretending to study his bulletin while the sanctuary emptied around him. He hadn’t heard most of the sermon. Something about Jacob wrestling the angel—about not letting go until the blessing came. But Monty had stopped wrestling months ago. These days, he just sat still and waited for the ache to pass.

When he finally stepped outside, the sun had shifted behind a bank of clouds, and a breeze had crept in off the bay. The steps were empty. The dog was gone.

For a reason he didn’t understand, he felt that absence more than he expected. He stood there a while, longer than made sense, scanning the sidewalk, the edge of the churchyard. Nothing. Just a scrap of paper blowing across the lot and the sound of children laughing two blocks over.

He went home, texted CJ—Home. Love you.—and made himself a tuna sandwich he didn’t want. When he washed the dishes, he caught himself setting out a second cup.

Vivian’s.

He left it where it was.

-

The next Sunday, Monty arrived ten minutes early. He didn’t admit—not even to himself—that he hoped to see the dog again. He told himself it was about traffic. The weather. Habit.

But she was there. Same spot. Same stillness.

This time, she sat upright, tail tucked neatly around her paws like a question mark. Her ears perked when she saw him, one still flopped like it had missed the cue. He slowed on the walkway.

"Morning," he said quietly, almost embarrassed.

She didn’t move—just blinked at him. Calm. Watchful. Unbothered.

A young couple walked past with a toddler in tow. The little boy pointed and chirped, “Doggy!” before his father nudged him gently along. Monty stayed for another beat, then climbed the steps and opened the doors.

As he moved down the aisle toward his usual seat near the back, Pastor Elaine caught his eye. She crossed the room with her usual no-nonsense stride, her robe swaying slightly around her ankles.

“Monty,” Pastor Elaine said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Habit, mostly.”

She smiled. “Sometimes the body walks before the heart catches up.”

Then she moved toward the pulpit as the choir began to tune up.

During the sermon, Monty found himself glancing at the stained-glass window on the south wall. It was the Good Shepherd window—Jesus with the lamb across His shoulders. Vivian had always loved that one. Said it reminded her that being carried wasn’t failure—it was mercy.

-

After service, he exited slowly. Some parishioners smiled politely. A few touched his elbow or said they were still praying for him. He thanked them, meant it, and felt the gap between sincerity and connection.

The dog was still there. Waiting.

Someone had left a bowl of water, and a child—maybe the same one as before—was crouched nearby, whispering to her.

“She doesn’t have a name,” the boy whispered.

“Maybe she does,” Monty said, surprised to hear himself speak. “Maybe she’s just waiting for someone to ask.”

The child grinned and ran off as his mother called.

Monty stood a moment longer. Then his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

It was CJ.

CJ:

How was church? You doing okay today?

Monty:

Better than last week.
There’s a dog that keeps showing up here.

CJ:

Like a stray?

Monty:

No collar.  Just waiting on the steps.

CJ:

Then it needs a home. Love you, Dad.

Monty stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. Then he typed:

Love you, too.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked down the steps.

The dog stared back with quiet, expectant eyes.

He didn’t have anything to offer her. Not yet.

But he gave her a nod.

For the first time, she wagged her tail—slow and deliberate, like the start of a sentence worth finishing.

_

The next morning, Monty sat at the kitchen table, CJ’s words still glowing on his phone screen:

Then it needs a home.

He read it twice more before setting the phone down. The words weren’t just about the dog. They echoed louder than that—into corners of the house that had been quiet too long.

He looked at the cup still sitting on the shelf—Vivian’s. He’d left it untouched for eight months. A kind of monument. A kind of pause.

He stood. Took it down.

His hand trembled slightly as he washed it. Dried it. Set it gently in the cabinet beside the good china. The sound of porcelain meeting porcelain felt like a door quietly closing without slamming shut.

Then he grabbed the dog food and bowl—still in the bag from the grocery store—and headed out.

-

She was there again.

Same step. Same stillness.

Lucy—he’d started calling her that—rose when she saw him. Not bounding. Just steady, tail moving in that cautious, hopeful way that still felt like a question.

He poured a small mound of kibble into the bowl and set it near the steps. She approached slowly, politely, as if aware this was sacred ground. When she ate, it was with measured gratitude, each crunch deliberate.

“You keep waiting,” he murmured. “Even when I don’t have much to give.”

She ate slowly, glancing up at him between bites. When she finished, she didn’t wander off. She stayed close.

He rested his hand on her back. The fur was coarse in some places, soft in others. Familiar now.

“You know,” he said, voice catching, “Vivian would’ve loved you.”

For a while, they just sat there. The world moved around them—cars passing, leaves shifting—but it felt like a still point in time.

He looked at the church door, then at Lucy.

“I think you’ve waited long enough.”

She tilted her head, and he stood. Opened the passenger door of his car.

“Come on, girl.”

Lucy hesitated for half a breath, then climbed in, circling once before curling into the seat like she’d always belonged there.

As he closed the door behind her, Monty whispered, “Thank You”—not to the dog, but to the quiet.

Grace didn’t knock. She waited. And now, she was going home with him.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

Where is God quietly present in your life—waiting to be noticed, trusted, or let in?

Echoes of Faith| The Healing Hands of Rosa Mae| Flash Fiction

 

The Healing Hands of Rosa Mae

When a panicked knock pulls retired midwife Rosa Mae Sutton back into service, she steps into more than a childbirth—she walks into a broken family's silence. In the hush that follows new life, God’s grace speaks louder than shame ever could. —scroll down to begin.

Rosa Mae Sutton had hands that once caught near every baby born in Calvary County—brown, calloused hands with fingers steady as prayer. These days, they mostly stayed busy in her garden or folded in her lap during Sunday service at Mount Olive Missionary Baptist, third pew from the back. Folks called her "retired," but Rosa Mae never saw it that way. You don’t retire from being a servant. You just get quieter at it.

Since her husband Calvert passed last spring, the house had been too quiet. Some mornings she still reached across the bed before remembering he wasn’t there. But grief, like rain, came and went in its own season—and Rosa Mae had learned to let the Lord carry what she couldn’t.

So when whispers about young Lena Johnson started circling—sixteen, belly round, no ring, and no name for the father—Rosa Mae didn’t join the chatter. She passed the offering plate on Sunday and the potato salad on Wednesday—and kept her mouth shut in between. Folks said it was “a family matter.” Rosa Mae knew better than to poke at sealed-up wounds. Truth came when it was ready.

The rain started around suppertime, soft and steady on the tin roof. Rosa Mae stood at her stove, turning catfish fillets, the smell of cornmeal and cayenne in the air. The Mississippi Mass Choir hummed low from the radio.

She had just set the cornbread in the oven when she heard the knock—sharp and hurried. She paused, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and made her way to the front door.

She opened the door to Evelyn Johnson standing on the porch, soaked near through. Her white blouse clung to her shoulders, hair frizzed at the edges, and her breath came fast like she’d run the whole way. Rainwater dripped from her elbows.

"Evenin’, Evelyn,” Rosa Mae said.

Evelyn hesitated, chest rising and falling. “It’s Lena,” she said. “The baby’s comin’. Early.”

"How far apart are the pains?"

"I don’t know. She’s screamin’ and cryin’. Doctor Mays is in Jackson. We tried callin’ twice. Chester’s out of town, but on the way back."

"And the ambulance?"

"Too far. Weather’s slowed everything."

Rosa Mae nodded. "Come in out the rain. I’ll get my bag."

Evelyn hesitated, then stepped inside, shoulders slumping. Rosa Mae reached for her old satchel, folded a towel, and grabbed the little jar of anointing oil beside the salt.

"Lord," she murmured, "guide my hands like You always do."

The rain hadn’t let up by the time they pulled into the Johnsons’ gravel drive. Rosa Mae climbed the front steps with careful steps, her bag in one hand, her Bible tucked inside. The porch light flickered above them, casting soft halos in the mist.

Inside, the house was filled with the sharp, high-pitched sounds of a girl in pain.

"Mama!" Lena’s voice came from the back room, raw and afraid.

Evelyn winced. "She’s been like that for near an hour. I tried to help, but she don’t want me near her."

Rosa Mae gave her a long, knowing look. "That baby’s comin’ whether y’all are ready or not."

She stepped into the bedroom where Lena lay twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, face red, curls stuck to her forehead. The girl’s eyes met Rosa Mae’s—and panic softened.

"Miss Rosa Mae..."

"I’m here, baby,” she said, setting her bag down. “Ain’t no need to be afraid now."

Lena groaned as a contraction stole her breath.

Evelyn lingered in the doorway.

"You gonna help or hover?" Rosa Mae said.

Evelyn blinked, then stepped forward, grabbing a towel.

"Good," Rosa Mae said. "Let’s bring this child into the world."

Thirty minutes later, Lena cried out, bore down, and with Rosa Mae’s steady hands guiding the way, a baby boy entered the world—red-faced and squalling, lungs full of life.

Rosa Mae wrapped him in a towel and handed him to Lena, who sobbed as she cradled him against her chest.

Evelyn stood frozen, her breath hitching, tears caught behind her eyes. Her whole body trembled—but she didn’t move.

The baby had quieted now, swaddled and sleeping in Lena’s arms, his breath soft as rain against her chest. The storm outside had eased to a drizzle, tapping the windows like a lullaby. The room, once filled with cries and chaos, settled into a hush—the kind that followed holy things.

Evelyn stood at the edge of the bed, hands trembling, eyes fixed on her grandson like she didn’t know whether to reach or retreat.

Rosa Mae packed away her instruments. Without turning, she said softly, “I reckon the paperwork’s already filled out.”

Lena’s head snapped up. “What?”

Evelyn stiffened.

Rosa Mae turned to face them. “For the adoption.”

Silence.

“We were tryin’ to do what’s best,” Evelyn said, her voice tight.

Lena’s eyes welled. “You never asked what I wanted.”

Rosa Mae folded her hands. “I ain’t here to tell y’all what to do. But I’ll say this—every baby I ever caught came into this world carryin’ purpose, planned or not.”

She looked at Lena. “You love him?”

Lena glanced at her newborn son and grinned. “With everything I got.”

“Then the Lord’s already given you what you need to start.”

Evelyn’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“You think I’m hard,” she said suddenly. “But I was you.”

Lena frowned. “What do you mean?”

Evelyn sat down. “I was sixteen. Pregnant.  Your grandmother made me marry a man I barely knew. I lost that baby.”

She looked at her daughter. “I wasn’t mad at you. I was scared. Scared you'd go through what I did.”

“You could’ve told me,” Lena whispered.

“I’m tellin’ you now.”

Rosa Mae stepped forward, placed a hand on both their shoulders.

“The enemy loves secrets. But the Lord? He works in the light.”

She glanced at the baby. “He ain’t just a burden. He’s a blessing. Proof that even after we mess up, God still sends new life.”

Evelyn reached for the baby. Lena let her. Evelyn kissed his forehead and closed her eyes.

Rosa Mae picked up her bag.

“You leavin’?” Lena asked.

“Mmhmm,” she said with a smile. “Y’all don’t need me now.”

At the door, she paused.

“Don’t let fear raise that child. Let love do it. Let the Lord do it.”

She stepped into the clearing night, stars breaking through the clouds. Behind her, the soft sounds of a family being made echoed like an old spiritual hymn.

🕊️ An Echoes of Faith Story

When secrets stayed hidden, grace brought them to light.