Empty Hands - Stories of an Upside-Down Kingdom

Story One: Empty Hands

Ethan prided himself on being the kind of man people relied on.

He fixed things. He stayed late. He answered his phone when it rang after hours. When something went wrong, he was usually already halfway to solving it before anyone else finished explaining the problem.

It was how he’d learned to survive.

The shop opened at six-thirty, but Ethan was there by five-thirty, same as always. The building was quiet in that early-morning way that felt honest, before the day put on its noise. He unlocked the side door, flicked on the lights, and set his lunch on the counter where it would sit untouched until midafternoon.

The place smelled like oil and metal and dust that never quite went away. He liked that. It smelled like work. Like proof.

He pulled on his gloves and started where he always did checking the lift, scanning the floor, making sure everything was in its place. Order mattered. Control mattered. If he kept the shop running smooth, the rest of life tended to fall in line.

At least that’s what he told himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it at first, finishing the inspection, then wiped his hands on a rag and checked the screen.

Mom.

He stared at the name longer than necessary.

She rarely called this early unless something was wrong.

He answered. “Hey.”

Her voice was thin, already tired. “Morning, Ethan.”

“What’s up?”

There was a pause. He could hear movement on her end hospital sounds he’d learned to recognize without wanting to.

“It’s your dad,” she said. “They ran more tests overnight.”

Ethan leaned back against the workbench. “Okay.”

“They’re saying the damage is worse than they thought.”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Alright. What’s the plan?”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“There isn’t one yet.”

That landed heavier.

Ethan closed his eyes. He could already feel his mind moving calling specialists, researching options, thinking in lists and steps. He needed something to do.

“Put the doctor on,” he said. “I’ll talk to them.”

She exhaled softly. “Ethan… there isn’t really”

“I can handle it,” he said, a little sharper than he meant. “Just let me talk to someone.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then she said, “They’ll call later. I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay,” he replied. “I’ll come by after work.”

“You don’t have to”

“I’ll be there,” he said, already ending the call.

He stared at the phone after it went dark.

Then he did what he always did.

He went back to work.

The morning filled up fast. Cars rolled in. Problems piled up. Engines knocked. Brakes screamed. Customers hovered with folded arms and expectations.

Ethan moved through it all like muscle memory. Diagnose. Repair. Reassure. Repeat.

Around ten, Mark showed up late.

Mark had been with the shop less than a year. Young. Capable enough. But he carried himself like someone who hadn’t yet figured out where he fit. He hovered, second-guessed, apologized too much.

“You’re late,” Ethan said without looking up.

“Sorry,” Mark said quickly. “Traffic”

“Clock’s on the wall,” Ethan replied. Not angry. Just factual.

Mark nodded and went to his station.

Ethan told himself he didn’t have time to babysit today. Too much riding on things going right.

But when a sedan stalled halfway onto the lift because Mark hadn’t secured the brake properly, Ethan snapped.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

Mark flinched. “I, I thought”

“You thought wrong,” Ethan said. He stepped in, fixed it himself in seconds, hands moving fast. “You can’t afford to guess here.”

“I know,” Mark said, face burning. “I’m trying.”

Ethan straightened. “Trying isn’t enough.”

The words hung there, sharp and exposed.

Mark swallowed. “Right.”

He stepped back, giving Ethan space, eyes down.

Ethan felt something twist in his chest, but he ignored it. He didn’t have time to soften the truth.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He left the shop later than planned. The hospital lights were already on when he arrived, the building humming with quiet urgency.

His dad looked smaller in the bed. Tubes. Monitors. Machines doing what bodies couldn’t anymore.

Ethan stood at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, unsure where to put himself.

His mom sat beside him, fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam cup.

“The doctor came by,” she said. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What did he say?” Ethan asked.

She looked at him then, really looked at him.

“He said your dad’s tired.”

Ethan frowned. “Tired doesn’t mean”

“It means tired,” she said gently.

Ethan shook his head. “There has to be something else we can do.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Honey…”

He pulled back without meaning to.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “I always do.”

She didn’t argue. She just nodded, the way people do when they know arguing won’t help.

Ethan stayed another hour, staring at the machines, at his dad’s chest rising and falling with borrowed help. He hated the feeling crawling under his skin the one where no amount of effort would make a difference.

On the way out, he passed the small chapel near the elevator bank.

The door was open. Empty inside. A few rows of chairs. A wooden cross on the wall.

He slowed, then stopped.

He hadn’t been inside a place like that in years.

He stood in the doorway, unsure why his feet wouldn’t move.

Finally, he stepped in and sat in the back row.

The silence was different there. Not empty. Just still.

Ethan rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said quietly, surprising himself.

The words echoed faintly, then disappeared.

He waited for something relief, clarity, a sense of direction.

Nothing came.

He sat there a few minutes longer, then stood and left, feeling foolish for expecting anything else.

The next morning, Mark wasn’t at work.

Ethan checked the schedule twice.

Around noon, his phone buzzed with a text.

Mark:

Hey. I’m sorry to do this over text. I’m not coming back. I know I messed up yesterday. I just don’t think I’m cut out for this. Thanks for the opportunity.

Ethan stared at the message.

Annoyance flared first. Then frustration. Then something else he didn’t have a name for.

He typed a response, erased it. Typed again. Erased again.

He locked his phone and set it down.

The shop felt louder than usual. The work heavier.

Around three, his mom called again.

Her voice broke before she could finish the sentence.

Ethan left work without saying much. The drive to the hospital felt longer this time.

By the time he arrived, it was over.

The days that followed blurred together.

Arrangements. Paperwork. People saying things they didn’t know how to mean.

Ethan moved through it all stiffly, doing what needed to be done. Fixing what could be fixed. Avoiding what couldn’t.

The night after the funeral, he sat alone in his kitchen, lights off, hands wrapped around a cold cup of coffee.

He felt hollow.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just empty.

He thought of the chapel. Of the silence. Of the words he’d said without planning to.

I don’t know what to do.

For the first time, he didn’t push the thought away.

He let it sit.

The next morning, he opened the shop early again.

Mark’s station was still empty.

Ethan stood there a long moment, staring at the tools laid out neatly, the way Mark had always left them.

He took out his phone.

Typed.

Ethan:

I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You didn’t deserve it. If you want to come back, we can talk. No pressure.

He sent it before he could change his mind.

Then he stood there, unsure what came next.

Later that afternoon, when the shop slowed, Ethan found himself sitting on the edge of the workbench, hands open, empty.

He didn’t feel strong.

He didn’t feel capable.

He didn’t feel like the man people relied on.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to fix that feeling.

He just let it be true.

That night, Ethan returned to the hospital chapel.

He sat in the same back row.

He didn’t have a plan this time. No words ready.

“I don’t have anything,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how to do this.”

The silence didn’t rush him.

He stayed.

When he finally stood to leave, nothing miraculous had happened. No answers. No sudden peace.

But something had shifted.

Not power.

Not confidence.

Just honesty.

And somehow, that felt like a beginning.

Inspired by: Matthew 5:3