Tori Rae, a damsel in not so much distress. A mixed up fairytale

 

Once upon a time, not so long ago but certainly not quite today, in a kingdom where the gingerbread houses had Wi-Fi and the wolves wore spectacles, lived a young woman named Tori Rae. Tori Rae wasn't your typical damsel in distress; she was more of a damsel in "distressingly efficient problem-solving mode."

One sunny Tuesday, Tori Rae received a rather glitter-bomb-covered invitation. It wasn't to a royal ball, but to a "Grand Forest Bake-Off and Potion Mixer" hosted by none other than Goldilocks herself, who had since become a rather demanding event planner. The problem? Tori Rae's prize-winning entry, a batch of "Enchanted Everlasting Cupcakes" (rumored to grant the eater eternal good hair days), had been stolen!

Her first clue was a single, sparkling glass slipper left near her kitchen window. "Classic," Tori Rae muttered, rolling her eyes. "Someone's clearly trying to frame Cinderella."

Determined to retrieve her cupcakes, Tori Rae grabbed her trusty, multi-tool-equipped red hooded cloak (a gift from her Grandma, who was surprisingly tech-savvy for someone living in a cottage in the woods). As she ventured into the Whispering Woods, she stumbled upon a cottage made entirely of candy. A peculiar sight, even for these mixed-up lands. The door was ajar, and inside, three unusually large, but surprisingly polite, bears were arguing over porridge temperatures.

"Excuse me," Tori Rae piped up, her voice clear and unafraid. "Have any of you seen a rogue princess with a penchant for footwear, or perhaps a trail of enchanted cupcakes?"

Papa Bear, who had a surprising fondness for modern jazz, merely grumbled about someone having eaten hisextra-spicy porridge. Mama Bear, however, sniffed the air. "I do smell something vaguely sweet and magically enhanced, but it led towards the Spinning Wheel Tower."

"The Spinning Wheel Tower?" Tori Rae frowned. "But that's where Rapunzel lives, and she's usually too busy detangling her hair to get involved in cupcake larceny."

Undeterred, Tori Rae followed the faint scent of sugar and magic. As she approached the tower, she didn't find a maiden with impossibly long braids, but instead, a rather flustered Prince Charming, tangled in what appeared to be an industrial-sized spool of golden thread.

"Oh, thank goodness!" he exclaimed, spotting Tori Rae. "I was trying to help Little Red Riding Hood spin straw into gold for a special delivery, but I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a knot. And also, I think Rumpelstiltskin has been trying to hack into my royal dating app."

Tori Rae, ever practical, quickly untangled the bewildered prince. "Never mind that, have you seen my cupcakes or a suspiciously well-dressed, glass-slipper-wearing princess?"

Prince Charming blinked. "Why, yes! Cinderella was just here, looking for a place to hide something. She mentioned she needed to 'diversify her portfolio' and hinted at a new venture in enchanted baked goods. She ran off with a very large basket towards the highest hill – said something about a beanstalk being a shortcut."

Tori Rae sighed. "A beanstalk. Of course."

She thanked the prince, grabbed a convenient, albeit slightly oversized, magic bean from a dropped satchel, and planted it. Within seconds, a colossal stalk spiraled towards the clouds. With a determined grin, Tori Rae began to climb.

At the very top, nestled amongst the fluffy clouds, was not a giant's castle, but a surprisingly chic penthouse apartment. And there, in the living room, surrounded by her stolen Enchanted Everlasting Cupcakes, sat Cinderella. She wasn't wearing a ballgown, but a sharp business suit, meticulously counting her new baked empire.

"Tori Rae!" Cinderella exclaimed, dropping a cupcake. "I can explain! The market for glass slippers has plummeted, and I needed a new, scalable business model. Your cupcakes are revolutionary!"

Before Tori Rae could decide whether to demand justice or a business partnership, a tiny, furious voice piped up from behind a teacup. "And I was going to use those to lure a prince into a long-term commitment!" It was Thumbelina, surprisingly enraged, clutching a miniature, golden fishing rod.

Tori Rae merely shook her head. "You know what? Keep them, Cinderella. But next time, just ask. And Thumbelina, there are better ways to find love than enchanted baked goods."

With her moral compass realigned and a new understanding of the cutthroat fairy tale economy, Tori Rae carefully descended the beanstalk. She decided to go home, make herself a normal, non-magical cup of tea, and perhaps start a new business selling emergency untangling kits for princes. After all, in a mixed-up fairy tale world, a little practicality goes a long way.

Nottingham - a little faith - Tori Rae, Honey and Liam

 

Faith woke up in a sweat, sitting straight up in bed. The clock read 3:33. She sighed and laid back down. This dream had been haunting her lately. A dream of knights and round tables and this aching sense of betrayal. It was really getting to her. The man at the center of her dream in a way resembled Noah but time had not been good to that man's skin or disposition. Each time she saw Noah as she ran errands in town, this errant king's face hit her heart as if she had been personally slighted. And frankly, it was really getting on her nerves. Sometimes this supposed psychic gift was more of a silent curse.

Tori Rae Davis crumpled up the notebook page and threw it across the room. Honey Barnes owner of Honey Bee's Book Nook observed her from across the bookstore. It was the seventh paper Tori had discarded in the last hour. There was definitely something bothering the AKA Art Cafe aficionado. 

Honey picked up and read the last paper she tossed out. It was Tori's Nottingham story. It had been awhile since Tori had wanted to dabble in that world again. Honey wondered why she was back at it. That story had really hurt her heart after Jace Quinn left and then Liam Walsh came forward to take the temporary leader position at the church.

As she read the paragraph, Honey realized Tori was having dreams again. In a way, that was awesome. Her grief after Henry's death had set her back. Not just in her walk with God but her walk as a creative soul, worship singer and self appointed God girl. She had basically lost so much of what made Tori Tori. She had been in a season of healing not just her body but her mind and spirit as well. She had questioned her whole existence when Jace kicked her out of the church. Thank God her brother Marcus had been around to pick up the pieces. His military experience had helped him deal with the loss of his dad, but Tori's life had been shattered that day with Jace's one vengeful act.

The newly called minister Ben Eden wouldn't know how to deal with Tori's inner wounds, but Liam Walsh would definitely have words of wisdom for his old friend. Honey signaled to Huck Henderson that she was taking a break and she headed over to the police station to see if Liam might have a few minutes to chit chat.

Nottingham: Seeking Sanctuary revisited Chapter 3

**Scene: “An Unopened Chapter”**  

Faith balanced a sturdy canvas tote in one arm, the waxed paper from a half-eaten scone still tucked beneath the strap. Honey had scribbled a note on top of the book order invoice: *“He looks tired. Maybe tuck in some sunshine while you're there?”*

She knocked lightly on the door of the church office, almost hoping no one would answer. But Ben opened it almost immediately, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses perched low on his nose.

“Faith,” he said, clearly surprised but not unfriendly. “I didn’t know you were on delivery duty now.”

She smiled, trying not to fidget. “It was either me or Huck, and he said his vibe was more Dickensian than pastoral.”

Ben chuckled and stepped aside, motioning her in.

She set the books gently on the desk and was about to make her exit when something caught her eye—a framed photo of two boys, maybe ten and twelve, with matching crooked grins. Beside it, a child’s watercolor of an angel and the words *“Hope lives here.”*

Ben followed her gaze. His shoulders softened.

“My sister passed away,” he said. “Suddenly. I’ve been caring for her boys while their dad gets his feet back under him.”

Faith looked up slowly. “That’s why you weren’t at service last week.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t tell anyone. I guess I didn’t want to make a sermon out of my grief.”

There was a pause. The kind that doesn’t ache, but *listens*.

Then Faith said, barely above a whisper, “You probably could have. And I think... I would have stayed to hear it.”

He looked at her then—really looked.

“You’re welcome to stay anytime, Faith. In the music. In the mess. In all of it.”

---

Ben moved to pour a second mug of coffee, gesturing for Faith to sit if she wanted to stay. She hesitated, then lowered herself onto the chair opposite his desk, journal still cradled in her hand like a shield she hadn’t decided to lower yet.

The steam between them curled like a bridge.

> “What was she like?” Faith asked quietly, nodding toward the boys' photo.

Ben smiled, though it looked like it had to pass through a veil of grief first.  

> “Fierce. Thoughtful. Could make a room laugh or cry with the same story. Her name was Grace.”

Faith traced the rim of her mug. “I’m sorry I didn’t know. I didn’t really… let myself know much of anyone after—” She stopped.

He didn’t push. Just waited.

> “After Noah,” she finished. “I thought I could worship God and still keep walls around the people.”

Ben nodded slowly.  

> “Makes sense. People burn us in sacred places, and suddenly it’s easier to treat everyone like strangers with kind faces.”

Faith blinked, not expecting understanding to sound so casual. So true.

> “But you stayed,” she said, watching him. “After what happened. After how fractured everything felt here. Why?”

Ben leaned back slightly, fingers laced around his mug like it steadied more than the coffee inside.

> “Because I believe in church as a *place of becoming*, not of arriving,” he said. “And I think people are craving that again. Not perfection. Not showmanship. Just honesty. Healing. Community that tells the truth and sings anyway.”

He let the words land.

> “I want this place to be safe again,” he continued. “For the ones who stayed too quiet for too long. For the ones who left because it stopped sounding like grace. And for the ones—like you—who have something sacred still simmering beneath the surface.”

Faith looked down. Then up. Eyes glistening, but not from sorrow.

> “I used to think that if I sang again, it would mean I’d forgiven too easily. That I’d forgotten.”

Ben shook his head.  

> “Maybe it means you *remembered*—who you are, who He is, and what the music means when it’s not wrapped in pain.”

She exhaled, then opened her journal. Flipped to the page with the lyrics from *So Close.*  

> “I don’t know if I’m ready to stand on a stage again.”

He smiled gently.  

> “Start by standing in the room. That’s more than enough.”

---

Nottingham: Seeking Sanctuary revisited, chapter two

 

**Sunday Message: "Still Worth Singing"**  

*Sanctuary of Seeking, Morning Service*

Dek Fox steps to the mic, tuning his acoustic quietly, eyes scanning the faces before him. He offers a crooked smile—nervous, maybe—but steady. The sanctuary is hushed. Some are still reeling from Ben’s heartfelt message the week before. Dek feels it too. But today is different.

> “Last week… Ben spoke with courage. About grief. About silence. And about how it shapes us.  

> I couldn’t stop thinking about what we do *after* the silence.  

> What happens after the wound…  

> after the goodbye…  

> after the moment when we thought we’d never sing again.”

He strums a soft chord—just a heartbeat of melody—and lets it fade.

> “There’s this line in Psalm 40 that always grips me: *‘He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.’*  

> That new song? It doesn’t come from talent. Or timing. Or who someone else chose.  

> It comes from *rescue*. From survival. From having stood on the edge and choosing to stand anyway.”

He pauses, breath catching just slightly.

> “Maybe someone here today needs to hear this:  

> Your voice isn’t forgotten.  

> Your worth isn’t lost.  

> And the God who wrote your melody still believes you’re *so close* to stepping back into it.”

He looks toward the worship team setup, and his eyes land—just briefly—on Faith in the back row. He doesn’t call her out. But his voice softens.

> “Sometimes the person who taught us to sing… also taught us to stop.  

> But Heaven doesn’t audition. Grace doesn’t require permission.  

> If you still feel the music stirring in you, even through the ache…  

> Then maybe it’s time to let the song rise again.”

---

**Scene: “Scones and Sanctuary”  

Location: Honey Bee’s Book Nook – Morning sun catching in the stained-glass windows, mismatched mugs steaming, the air warm with the scent of lemon glaze and vanilla.**

Faith sat cross-legged in the corner booth, her journal half-open and a bite of Kit Carlyle’s famous lemon-blueberry scone paused halfway to her mouth. The worn leather spine of her Bible rested beside her, like a trusted friend who didn’t mind long silences.

Honey swayed in from the counter, her beaded earrings catching the light. She wore a lavender wrap today and smelled faintly of patchouli and apricots. She slid into the booth beside Faith, her kaleidoscope mug in hand.

> “You’ve got that ‘spirit just got stirred’ look,” Honey said with a smile. “Was it something Dek said or something you finally let yourself hear?”

Across from them, Huck Hutchinson reclined like a period drama gentleman misplaced in modern times. His suspenders were burgundy. His teacup was floral. His expression was laced with amusement.

Faith exhaled slowly, tapping her pen against the margins of her journal.

> “It was Dek. Or maybe… it was God through Dek. He said, ‘Heaven doesn’t audition. Grace doesn’t require permission.’ And I just—” Her voice caught. “I used to sing with everything in me. And now I… don’t. I can’t.”

Honey reached across the table, placed her hand gently over Faith’s.

> “Sweet one, the song never left you. It just went quiet while your heart healed.”

Huck nodded, swirling his tea in slow circles. “I once read a poem that said silence isn’t the absence of sound—it’s where music waits to be remembered.”

Faith’s eyes welled unexpectedly. “I just needed someone to choose me. To say I was still worth hearing.”

Honey leaned back, that twinkle in her eye. “Who says you need *anyone* to choose you? What if you’re the one holding the sheet music now?”

There was a beat of quiet, like the universe taking a sip of its own coffee.

Then Honey added, “Besides, the acoustics in here? Divine. If you happen to hum a few lines from ‘So Close,’ I doubt anyone’s gonna mind.”

Faith smiled, the first real one all morning. Maybe today wasn’t about auditions or stage lights. Maybe it was about remembering she had a voice at all.

---

**Scene: “The Song That Found Her”  

Location: Honey Bee’s Book Nook, late morning—sunlight slanting through ivy-draped windows, cinnamon steam curling from mugs, a quiet lull in the shop’s hum.**

Faith hums softly at first. Just a thread of melody. *So Close,* the song that once felt stolen, now trembling from her lips in a moment of spontaneous remembering. Huck picks up the harmony like he’s been waiting for it all along, voice warm and wistful, drawing the notes into a gentle dance.

Honey doesn’t speak—just sways slightly, hands cradled around her mug as though holding a sacred thing.

Then the bell above the shop door jingles.

Dek steps in, hesitating when he spots them. He almost turns away, caught in the threshold. But something keeps his feet rooted, some unspoken stirring that pushes him forward.

Faith sees him.

Their eyes meet.

And without any grand apology or explanation, Dek joins the song. His voice isn’t perfect—it cracks around the edges—but it’s sincere. It wraps around the ache between them and lets it breathe.

The lyrics rise, not as performance, but as prayer.

**“We’re so close…  

To reaching that famous happy end…”**

Faith’s voice steadies. Stronger now. Not because she was chosen, but because she chose *herself.*

They finish the chorus in quiet harmony, voices trailing into silence.

Dek looks at her—not like a worship leader, not like a man unsure of what to say—but like someone who sees her again.

> “You still carry the sound, Faith,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I forgot to listen.”

Faith presses her palm to her chest, where the music still echoes. “I just needed space to remember it was mine.”

---

Nottingham: Seeking Sanctuary - Revisited - Chapter One

 

**Chapter One: “The Mirror That Spoke”**

Faith sat curled on the floor of the chapel -- her chapel now, though the echoes of the past still hung like incense in the rafters. Candles flickered half-heartedly beside her, their glow swallowed by the pre-dawn haze leaking through stained glass. She wasn’t praying so much as unraveling. The journal in her lap lay open, words halted mid-sentence, as if even her ink was holding its breath.

She whispered into the silence:  

“God, if You’re still writing this story, I feel like I lost the plot.”

Her eyelids grew heavy. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe surrender. The chapel blurred, and the hush pulled her downward like a velvet tide.

---

She stood now in a wide, endless field under a sky the color of parchment. No sun. No shadow. Just stillness. Before her rose a mirror—weathered at the edges, rimmed in ivy, as tall as the oaks that weren’t there.

In its glass, she expected her reflection. Instead, she saw **him**—Noah. Clothed in old sermons and polished smiles. But the image shimmered and peeled away like flaking paint. In his place stood a blank page, glowing with quiet promise.

Behind her, a presence stirred—not loud, not visible. Just *there*. Like peace had learned to breathe.

And then, softly, undeniably:  

**“This is your story. Not his.”**

The words didn’t echo. They soaked in.  

**“You were never meant to live in someone else’s script. Your voice carries My breath. Your journey honors Me.”**

Faith turned back to the mirror. This time, her own reflection stood tall. A little cracked around the edges, yes—but fierce with fire and resilience. The blank page behind her shimmered again, and she saw it fill—not with rules or rebukes, but with *possibility.*

She reached out.

---

She jolted awake with her palm still outstretched. The candle beside her had burned low, wax pooling like a tear on the floor.

But something in her had shifted.

She wasn’t here to prove she belonged in someone else’s sanctuary.  

She *was* the sanctuary—rebuilt in grace, scrawled with mercy, brimming with truth.