Different Continents, Same Spirit

There are places in the world I have never stepped into.

Places I have never walked, never breathed in, never physically stood upon… yet somehow, they feel close to me. Not in a distant, romantic way—but in a way that feels deeply personal, almost as if something within me recognises them before I ever arrive.

It’s 2:13am on a Thursday morning as I write this.

I should be sleeping.

But something in me is awake.

Not just physically—but internally. There’s a pull, a quiet stirring that won’t let me switch off. The kind of feeling that sits just beneath the surface and asks to be written, even when your body is tired.

I’ve sat quietly and thought about this more than once.

How can you feel connected to people you’ve never met?

How can your heart move toward nations you’ve never seen with your own eyes?

And yet, it does.

Nigeria. Uganda. Papua New Guinea. Parts of Africa. Remote villages. Cities full of noise and struggle. Places where life looks different from mine—but where something deeper feels the same.

It’s not geography that connects us.

It’s something far more human.

Something spiritual.

Something forged in the same fire.

I don’t write this from a place of having it all figured out. I write this as someone who has been through the furnace. Someone who has walked through suffering, addiction, brokenness, fear, and moments where life itself felt like it was slipping through my hands.

My story isn’t polished. It’s not wrapped in perfection.

It’s marked by pain.

But it’s also marked by grace.

And I’ve come to realise something

Pain speaks a universal language.

It doesn’t matter where you are in the world.

Whether you’re standing on the Gold Coast in Australia like I often am… or whether you’re in a village in Uganda, a city in Nigeria, or deep in Papua New Guinea—pain, struggle, and the search for meaning all echo the same questions.

Why am I here?

Is there more than this?

Can my life be redeemed?

There is something in me that longs to see revival.

Not in a superficial way. Not just gatherings or moments that fade.

But real revival.

The kind that reaches into broken lives and brings them back to life.

The kind that meets people in addiction, in despair, in silence, in forgotten places—and breathes something new into them.

The kind that doesn’t just change behaviour, but transforms hearts.

I don’t say that lightly.

Because I know what it means to be in a place where you need something more than motivation… more than advice… more than another chance.

You need intervention.

You need grace.

You need something that comes from beyond yourself.

I’ve seen glimpses of this.

Not from a distance—but first-hand.

Papua New Guinea was one of those moments for me.

It wasn’t theory. It wasn’t something I read in a book or heard in a sermon.

It was real.

I saw people hungry—not just physically, but spiritually. I saw faith that wasn’t polished or structured in the way we often see it, but alive, raw, and expectant.

There were moments where you could feel something shifting.

Moments where people encountered God in ways that words struggle to fully capture.

Moments where what we talk about in theory became something visible.

Something undeniable.

And it stayed with me.

It marked me.

Because when you see something like that—even once—you can’t unsee it.

It changes the way you look at the world.

It changes what you long for.

Since then, something has grown in me.

A quiet but persistent desire.

A heart for people I may never meet—but somehow feel connected to.

A heart for the persecuted Church.

For those who gather quietly, sometimes in danger, sometimes in secrecy… simply to worship, to pray, to hold onto their faith.

I think about them often.

People who don’t have the same freedoms.

People whose faith costs them something.

People who risk relationships, safety, even their lives—just to follow Jesus.

And I ask myself

What does it mean to truly live out faith?

What does it mean when belief isn’t convenient… when it isn’t culturally accepted… when it comes at a cost?

There is something deeply humbling about that.

Something that strips away surface-level thinking.

Something that calls you deeper.

And then there are the unsaved.

The ones who don’t know.

The ones who are searching, but don’t even realise what they’re searching for.

The ones who carry pain, questions, wounds, addictions, emptiness—but have never encountered truth in a way that reaches them.

I was one of those people.

I know what it’s like to be lost.

To be searching in all the wrong places.

To try and fill something that never seems to stay filled.

To carry questions you don’t have answers for.

To feel like you’re drifting… even when life looks “normal” on the outside.

That’s why this matters to me.

Not as a concept.

Not as an idea.

But as something deeply personal.

There are places in the world I have never stepped into.

But I believe stories can travel where we cannot.

I believe words can reach places our feet haven’t yet walked.

I believe that what we carry—if it’s real—can cross borders, cultures, and languages.

Not because of us…

But because truth has a way of finding people.

Here on the Gold Coast, Australia, life can feel worlds apart from some of the places I think about.

The beaches, the sunlight, the rhythm of everyday life—it’s easy to stay comfortable.

But something in me doesn’t want comfort to be the final destination.

Because I’ve seen what happens when life is reduced to comfort.

It numbs you.

It keeps things surface-level.

It avoids the deeper questions.

And I’ve lived long enough to know that the deeper questions don’t go away.

They wait.

I don’t write to position myself as someone who has arrived.

I write as someone still walking.

Still learning.

Still being refined.

Still being shaped by the very things I once tried to escape.

Fire has a way of doing that.

It strips things back.

It reveals what’s real.

It exposes what cannot last.

But it also refines.

It transforms.

It rebuilds.

And maybe that’s part of why I feel this connection to places I’ve never been.

Because I know there are people in those places walking through their own fires.

Different circumstances.

Different environments.

But the same internal battles.

The same questions.

The same longing for something real.

Nigeria. Uganda. Papua New Guinea.

These aren’t just locations to me.

They represent people.

Lives.

Stories.

Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters.

People with dreams, fears, faith, doubts, and moments of both strength and breaking.

And I find myself praying for them.

Not in a distant way.

But in a way that feels like family I haven’t met yet.

I want to see revival.

Not for the sake of numbers.

Not for recognition.

But because I’ve seen what even a glimpse of it can do.

I’ve seen lives shift.

I’ve seen hope return.

I’ve seen something come alive in people that wasn’t there before.

And once you’ve seen that

You don’t want to keep it to yourself.

Wherever you’re reading this—from Australia, from the United States, from Africa, from Europe, from anywhere in the world

I don’t believe it’s accidental.

I believe there’s something deeper that connects us.

Something that goes beyond location.

Beyond background.

Beyond circumstances.

I don’t have all the answers.

But I know this:

There is hope.

There is redemption.

There is a way forward, even when it doesn’t look like it.

And sometimes… it starts with something as simple as a story.

There are places in the world I have never stepped into.

But I carry them in my heart.

And maybe one day, I’ll walk those roads.

Maybe one day, I’ll stand in those places.

But until then 

I’ll write.

I’ll pray.

I’ll remember.

And I pray these reflections burn with a deeper conviction to see the gospel pushed forward.

And I’ll believe that what is real… what is true… what is born in the fire

will reach further than I ever could on my own.

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About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.2M views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the "light in the mundane."

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
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