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About Story Bridge Books

Story Bridge Books is the publishing arm of Short Mountain Media, LLC located in Middle Tennessee.

Our goal is to write and publish books that entertain, inform and help readers find a bridge to Jesus Christ. We believe story is one of the best ways to do this.

Non-Fiction Books include:

When It's Too Hard To Heal by Michelle Lee Nolan

Restoring Your Vision by J. Douglas Nolan

Fiction

Other books in this series by Caroline Rivers

Small Town, Big Lies

The Wedding Planners Hidden Secret

The Locket's Secret

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Chapter one

A Table Set By Faith

Sarah Mitchell pressed her palms against a cold window, watching the city flicker toward midnight. The emptiness felt louder than the facts: today she'd lost her job. Twelve diligent years for a marketing firm that valued results above honesty. The call had been brief--a manager reading "restructuring" from a script. But Sarah knew her conscience had prompted the decision. Refusing to approve misleading claims about a new supplement, she'd chosen her integrity and lost her place.

Her Nashville apartment was neat, but unmoored. The severance envelope sat unopened beside an old ceramic mug. She traced the words, "Make it honest," a gift from her grandmother years before. It felt like a challenge now. Sarah wondered if she'd ever been honest with herself, obsessed with career success but growing emptier by the year.

Unable to sleep, she pulled out her grandmother's box of recipe cards, yellowed and bent at the edges. Ruth Mitchell had cooked hundreds of church suppers, feeding any stranger who showed up hungry. The recipes were more than instructions; each one included a prayer or memory--sometimes both. "Bake love into every layer," one card advised, smudged with flour and hope.

Sarah's faith had always been practical, practiced at arm's length in Sunday rituals and polite prayers. Lately, though, the certainty had faded. She still believed God was there, but wondered if she'd wandered too far in pursuit of ambition. The thought shamed her.

Wednesday morning, she wandered to Clear Creek Community Church, hands in her pockets, feet uncertain. She walked quietly upstairs, settling into a pew as the choir tuned soft harmonies. Pastor Raymond had always been approachable, his sermons tender but insistent. Today he caught Sarah by the doorway, eyes filled with both concern and the kind of wild hope only a pastor possessed.

"Rough week?" he asked gently.

"My job is gone," Sarah replied, voice small. "And I don't know what comes next."

He nodded. "Maybe not knowing is the blessing. We're called to serve, not always to understand."

He led her outside, where the missions committee gathered, surrounded by boxes of donated groceries. "We've been dreaming big, Sarah," he shared, "A food truck to serve hot lunches for anyone in need. We don't have a truck or a leader, but we do have a vision: dignity and hope, one plate at a time."

Sarah felt the old ache twist inside her--fear and longing stitched together. She remembered childhood afternoons in her grandmother's tiny kitchen, kneading dough and listening to stories about miracles and mercy. "God always finds a way to fill the table," Ruth used to say, dusting flour from her hands.

Driving home, Sarah wrestled with doubt. Was she equipped for something real, something raw? She'd spent years crafting stories for brands--could she build one for God? Her faith was splintered, but alive, and grief had carved space for something new. She spent the evening in prayer: "Lord, I've lost what I thought mattered. Tell me what does."

The answer didn't come quickly. Instead, a quiet urge surfaced: Do what your grandmother did. Feed them.

Sarah searched online and found a battered, affordable food truck nearby--a little dented, but salvageable. She paid with shaky faith, spent the weekend scrubbing surfaces, repairing burners, taping Ruth's recipe cards along the walls. Naming the truck was easy: Grace & Grits, inspired by Ruth's gospel spirit and southern comfort food.

She built a menu drawn from memory and mercy: shrimp and grits, buttermilk cornbread, sweet potato pie. For every lunch purchased, a meal was reserved for anyone hungry who couldn't pay--no questions asked. Business sense told her it was risky; her grandmother's legacy whispered the opposite.

Sarah's first week started before dawn. She loaded the truck, played worship music on her ipod, prayed over each pan. The customers came in a trickle, then a steady stream: business professionals rushing between meetings, families escaping cramped apartments, folks from the shelters by the river. She met Lamar, whose smile was undimmed by hard times. "Food tastes different when someone cares," he told her, gently tucking a tip in her jar.

Despite exhaustion, Sarah felt something fragile rekindling--purpose. Or perhaps hope. Yet every evening, doubts crept in. Was she making a difference? Or just filling bellies for the hour? Would she still believe if no one showed up tomorrow?

On Thursday, heat shimmered off the pavement. Sarah ladled mac and cheese with practiced comfort, lost in thought, when a voice broke the rhythm. "Seven entrees, please. All different."

She turned, noticing the man's steady gaze. He had a camera bag over his shoulder. He looked skeptical, professional, accustomed to keeping his guard up. Marcus Chen--his card confirmed he was with the Nashville Alt Weekly.

"You doing a story on food trucks?" Sarah asked, friendly but cautious.

He shrugged. "Some say you're a charity. Others say it's clever branding. I'm here to see what's real."

Sarah handed him his meals with a smile. "If you find out, let me know."

Marcus spent the next hour taking photos, notes, observing interactions between patrons. After the last customer left, he returned to the window, offering direct feedback. "Jambalaya's got punch. The mac and cheese feels... honest."

Sarah surprised herself with a laugh. "Recipe's a legacy. My grandma fed half the city with that dish. And she always prayed over every pan."

He raised an eyebrow. "You really believe prayer changes anything?"

Sarah hesitated, her doubts wrestling with hope. "Some days I struggle. But I'm still praying. Still feeding people. Even when I'm not sure what difference I make."

Marcus leaned against the counter, glancing at the "Grace & Grits" sign taped to the window.

"Pastor Raymond mentioned you put your savings into this project," he said, voice softer now. "Why risk it--your money, your comfort, your time--for people you barely know?

She looked him in the eye. "Because I lost my way. By helping others, I'm trying to walk it home. My faith isn't tidy right now. It's working, struggling, longing."

He nodded, as if recognizing her vulnerability was real. And rare.

After closing, Sarah wiped down her counters. She was exhausted yet quietly content. Loneliness lingered, but something new pulsed through her--like the first notes of a hymn not yet finished.

That night, her phone buzzed. A message lit up the screen:

Your mac and cheese made me think about home. Thanks. --MC

Sarah smiled. Tomorrow she'd cook, serve, and pray. Trusting, even in her doubts, that Grace & Grits was her way back to faith.

#

Chapter Two

Chapter two

Hungry For Something Real

Marcus returned the next day. He wore no press badge this time, only shaded sunglasses and a slight frown. Sarah pretended not to notice his lingering near the service window while she scrambled eggs and dialed the radio to a soft gospel station.

A handful of regulars drifted in. Lamar filled salt shakers and told his favorite story about a surprise storm at the river. Two women from the city office shared a cornbread muffin and gossiped in gentle tones. Marcus leaned against a picnic table and watched it all. Sarah wondered if she was passing his test.

At the end of the lunch rush, he returned to the truck. "You're efficient," he said. "And you remember every name. That's unusual."

Sarah shrugged. "You can't help someone unless you see who they are."

He pulled a paper-wrapped meal from the bag. "Your food isn't the prettiest plating in town. But every bite says somebody tried." He paused. "Most charity operations try for social impact. You make real food."

She wanted to thank him. Instead, Sarah slid a plate with mac and cheese through the window. "If you want to know more, sit and eat with me. Hard to judge a kitchen from behind glass."

Marcus sat on the curb, removing his sunglasses. For a minute, they chewed in silence.

Finally, he broke it. "You know, I was raised in a church. Small town, smaller congregation." His voice tightened. "There were rules for everything. What you wore. Who you could be seen with. I believed most of them until the pastor's son stole from the offering box. He got a second chance. My friend Helen wore the wrong skirt, tried to speak her mind, and they shunned her. You would have thought she..." He let the words die without finishing.

Sarah was quiet, letting his words settle. Marcus looked away.

"I never went back after that," he finished.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said. "Some places guard walls instead of hearts. But that's not the only version of faith."

He picked up another bite, but didn't eat. "I started writing to make sense of things. Looking for what was real. Most of it isn't."

Sarah felt the burn of tears behind her eyes and blinked them away. "It's hard to trust again after people fail you. But God doesn't always look the way people act."

Marcus nodded, slow and uncertain. "This truck. It's different. You don't try to sell me a story."

She smiled, feeling a little lighter. "I've done the selling. I want something honest now."

---

Other customers kept her busy for a while. Sarah watched Marcus from the corner of her eye--how he lingered at the picnic tables. Listening to Lamar's stories. Snapping a few candid shots of folks with their meals. He was searching. She recognized that hunger. She lived with it too.

When the crowd thinned, Marcus came back to the truck. "How'd you end up here, anyway? This is a big leap from corporate life."

Sarah took a deep breath. "I lost my job for refusing to cut corners on the truth. The day I left, I wasn't sure I'd find anything that mattered. I almost didn't want to try." Her hand tightened on the counter. "My grandmother believed serving food was serving God. I suppose I do too. It's scary every day."

He looked at her as if seeing something unexpected. "Most people run from what scares them."

"I almost did." Sarah admitted. "But faith means stepping forward, even when your knees shake."

Marcus nodded. "You're braver than you look."

She laughed. "You seem less cynical than you pretend."

For a moment, their eyes held--a quiet, unspoken recognition. Both marked by disappointment. Both still searching.

--

That evening, Marcus sat with her after closing. Takeout containers stacked between them, they lingered in the late light. He peeled back another layer.

"My dad was careful. Every Sunday shirt ironed crisp. But he never smiled in the pews. He smiled more at home, when we cooked together or watched old movies. Church felt tight. Home was where we breathed."

Sarah considered that. "My grandmother cooked for everyone, church or stranger. She said faith had to taste like welcome."

Marcus traced a finger around the rim of his cup. "Maybe I miss that simple kind. The kind you can see, or eat."

"I don't get it right every day," Sarah confessed. "Some nights, I doubt the whole thing. But cooking, listening, trying -- those pieces help me believe again."

Marcus offered her a smile. "That honesty is rare. It's why I keep coming back."

---

Later that week, the line at Grace & Grits stretched all the way to the corner. Lamar played host, directing newcomers and spinning jokes. The tip jar overflowed, but the pay-it-forward envelope emptied fast. Sarah worried over the books. Wondering if she'd made a naive mistake. Was this ministry sustainable, or just one more failed hope?

On Friday, Marcus watched her close up. He saw her count receipts and sigh, rubbing the ache in her wrist. He moved closer, voice gentle.

"Why keep pouring yourself out for this, Sarah? Most people would cut their losses."

She turned eyes to him, weariness leavened by stubborn resolve. "I want to help people who fall between the cracks. Not everyone needs a sermon. Some need a hot meal and to be seen. I believe that matters, even if it's just for today."

Marcus nodded, his skepticism quieter. "I know that feeling. Caring when nobody notices."

A few minutes later, a city official dropped by. "Permit renewal is up next week," he warned. "Might need proof of health inspection upgrades."

Sarah's heart sank. She hadn't factored that expense into her budget. Her hands trembled as she packed up, doubt creeping back.

Marcus lingered, offering help cleaning up. "Everything okay?"

Sarah hesitated, then told him the truth. "Permit renewals and upgrades. It'll cost more than I've got left. I thought faith would make it easier." Her laugh was hollow. "Sometimes it just makes you braver--then scares you more."

Marcus listened. "You're not alone, even if it feels that way. I know the lonely side of principle."

She looked at him then, grateful for the solidarity. "What are you looking for, Marcus? Really?"

He paused, the question unshielding something inside him. "A place that's honest, where the rules don't hurt people. Somewhere I can belong. Even if just for a day."

Sarah sat down beside him. The empty church lot was humming with crickets and distant music. "We all want that. Some days I still wonder if it's possible. But maybe we have to build it. Small as it starts."

The conversation faded to silence; comfortable, not empty.

That Saturday, Sarah made her grandmother's mac and cheese for the late crowd. Marcus stayed past closing, offering to taste-test the newest spiced recipe.

As they ate, a deeper conversation unfolded.

Marcus admitted quietly, "When I started reviewing food, I thought I'd have all the answers. Now, I keep searching for something that feels true. I find more pretense than substance."

Sarah rested her hand on the worn counter top. "Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking the world is all show. But faith, real faith survives disappointment. That's what I'm learning."

He met her gaze. "Maybe that's what I'm looking for. Something that lasts, even after people stop pretending."

Her eyes softened with understanding. "You can stay and eat any time, Marcus. No story angle required."

Their laughter was easy by now. The barriers between them cracked. Not by grand declarations but by shared meals and slow, honest words.

As the evening cooled, Sarah packed leftovers for Marcus. "You never said if my mac and cheese passes the critic's test."

He smiled, genuine and unguarded. "I'm still searching. But it tastes like hope. That has to count for something."

Sarah felt something new. A quiet joy, rooted not in certainty but in the growing trust between them.

That night, she texted Pastor Raymond:

We're barely breaking even. But hearts are full. Mine, too.

He replied: A table set by faith holds more than food.

Sarah lay awake, replaying Marcus's words, Lamar's laughter, the gentle strength of her grandmother's recipes. Her doubts remained. But something stronger--hope, faith, the beginnings of love--rose to meet the dawn.

#

Chapter Three

Chapter three

Where Grace Gathers

The deadline for the permit loomed. In the early hours, Sarah sat inside her truck.The quiet surrounding her like brewing storm. Her grandmother's recipe card was worn thin along the edges. She read the faded blessing one more time and prayed for enough faith to last the week. The ache of uncertainty settled over each morning, making every task heavier.

On Thursday, the city posted a final notice on the glass. It was explicit and impersonal. The required repairs and fees stretched well beyond Sarah's dwindling budget. She stared at the numbers, her resolve eroding. After closing, she slumped in the driver's seat and allowed herself one brief cry.

Marcus showed up at dusk carrying a box of donuts from the bakery down the street. "Long day?" he asked, concern flickering in his eyes.

Sarah nodded. "It might be one of our last. Permit requirements. Repairs and fees. I thought I could manage, but--" She shrugged, words trailing off.

Marcus leaned on the counter. "What if you let people help you?"

Her first impulse was to shy away. "I don't want to ask. Everyone's struggling as it is."

Marcus shook his head. "This truck is a gift to them. Give them a chance to give back."

The next morning, Marcus arrived early in front of the church. He took photos and recorded short interviews with regulars. Lamar, the city office ladies, even the bakery owner who often brought rolls. With Sarah's nervous blessing, he wrote her story. He described not just the food, but the heart behind it. The small acts of kindness. The prayers said over every meal. He told exactly how Sarah ended up in this battered truck, risking her savings and hope.

His review was honest and vulnerable. It ended with a call for help, not just for Grace & Grits, but for every neighbor who'd ever been hungry for something more than a meal.

"This food truck is a table where grace meets grit. If you've ever eaten here, if you want this to continue, show up. Be part of the story."

Friday morning, the article went live. The church lot filled before Sarah finished prepping her first batch of mac and cheese. Neighbors brought cash, checks, and donations. Local tradesmen lined up to help with repairs at no charge. Someone else brought a box of outlet covers. The exact ones Sarah needed for inspection. The bakery sent trays of sweet rolls and muffins. Pastor Raymond hugged Sarah in front of the whole crowd, tears in his eyes.

The city official returned through the crowd, waving fresh paperwork. "Looks like you got your upgrades paid for," he said, grinning. "We'll get the health check done this afternoon."

Sarah stared at the donations overflowing her basket, barely able to process the outpouring of support. When Lamar pressed a folded check into her palm, she thanked him automatically, but then his words stopped her cold. "Community covers what matters," he said, smiling. "Just like your grandma did for me when I was a kid." Sarah looked up, startled--she'd had no idea Lamar ever knew her grandmother. Realization flickered in his gentle eyes, and he nodded as if reading her thoughts. "Miss Ruth never forgot a name. She'd send me home with pie when times were tight. You remind me of her, Sarah." The revelation stirred something deep and unexpected in Sarah; suddenly her work felt rooted, history curling through the present, connecting her calling to a legacy she hadn't even known lived on in Lamar's memory.

Sarah thanked the crowd that had gathered around her. She was humbled and overwhelmed. After she spoke, she stepped aside to breathe. Marcus found her by the shady oak near the truck. His hands deep in his pockets. His face open and a little shy.

"This happened because of you," she told him. "You could have torn us down, but you built something instead."

Marcus shook his head. "I just told the truth. You gave it something worth finding."

She reached out, not sure what she meant to do. He took her hand, more certain now, and didn't let go. They sat together after the rush faded, backs against the food truck. The evening soft and golden.

"I used to think faith was about getting it right," Marcus said. "All those years in church, I felt like I was always failing some silent test. But this -- what you do -- it's messy, but it's real. It's what I've been searching for."

Sarah leaned her head against his shoulder. "I still doubt, Marcus. Some days I think I won't make it, even with the community behind me. But I have learned that faith survives in the sharing. Even when I'm scared, serving brings me back."

He pulled her closer. "You helped me believe again. Not all church is rules and walls. This feels like home."

She smiled, eyes shining. "You're welcome here. Always."

Marcus brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. He hesitated, then leaned in. Their lips met in a quiet kiss. Sweet and warm. Relief flooded Sarah. She felt a soul-level certainty that some risks are worth taking.

The church bell rang, marking the hour. They laughed together, tangled in possibility.

After dark, they sat atop the kitchen steps and watched the city breathe. Marcus brought her a plate -- her own mac and cheese. She tasted it as if it were new. He looked at her with gentle pride.

"You taught me to look for hope in ordinary things," he said. "Tomorrow, I want to help more. Maybe I'll learn the grits recipe if you're willing to teach."

She nudged him. "Careful. You'll start believing you belong here."

He squeezed her hand. "I already do."

The next week, repairs finished, Sarah opened Grace & Grits anew. Marcus stood beside her, laughing with volunteers, collecting stories for his next column. Not as a critic, but as part of the team. Lamar called him "Mac," which stuck.

Business slowly grew. The church lot hustled with new faces and old friends. Tips increased. Donations paid forward more meals than ever. Sometimes the line ran out the door. But Sarah never ran out of kindness.

Late every afternoon, she and Marcus shared a quiet moment outside the truck. They talked of past hurts and future dreams. He told her stories of his childhood and how faith once felt suffocating. She told him how courage learned in a kitchen became courage for a life.

Through it all, a gentle, deep affection grew between them. It wasn't loud or flashy. But it was real. They held hands beneath a starlit sky, exchanged easy kisses that felt like second chances.

One evening, after a busy day, Sarah knelt to clean up spilled flour. Marcus kneeled beside her and whispered, "Let's keep feeding hope, together."

She grinned. "That's the plan. One meal, one prayer, one act of courage at a time."

Marcus kissed her forehead and helped her to her feet. They stood arm in arm, looking out over the church lot as dusk settled. Inside the truck, her grandmother's recipe card hung beside a new photo. One of Sarah and Marcus, grinning behind the counter. It was proof that sometimes faith and love begin in the simple work of serving others.

Sarah knew doubts would return, but now she carried something stronger--a calling shaped by risk, community, and love found in unexpected places.

Grace would keep filling her table.

And beside her, Marcus.

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