The Journey Continues

its one in the morning and I havent long got home from my shift at Gold Coast University Hospital and as the world sleeps I find myself sitting quietly with a deep sense of gratitude.

It has been one of those weeks where I have spent a lot of time thinking and reflecting on books.

Not just writing them.

Not just publishing them.

Not just selling them.

But thinking about where they go after they leave our hands.

Next week I will be donating a box of my memoirs to The Footpath Library.

And honestly, the thought has encouraged me this week more than I can properly put into words.

There are moments throughout the publishing journey where you become consumed by practical things.

Printing.

Editing.

Distribution.

Marketing.

ISBN numbers.

Sales reports.

Social media posts and content creating.

Book listings.

Reviews.

All of those things have their place.

They matter.

But every now and then something happens that reminds you why you started writing in the first place.

This feels like one of those moments.

Because books were never meant to simply sit on shelves.

At least not the books that matter most.

The books that stay with us tend to travel.

They move through people's lives.

They find their way into difficult seasons.

They appear at unexpected moments.

Sometimes they arrive precisely when they are needed.

And that thought has been sitting heavily on my heart.

The older I get, the more I realise that stories have a strange way of travelling far beyond their authors.

When I sat down to write Kissed by Death, I was not thinking about school suppliers.

I was not thinking about libraries.

I was not thinking about distribution networks.

I was not thinking about where the book might eventually end up.

I was simply trying to tell the truth.

Trying to tell the story of a young man who survived things he never expected to survive.

Trying to tell the story of God's faithfulness through trauma, illness, addiction, heartbreak, and recovery.

Trying to put words around experiences that had shaped my entire life.

That was the goal.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

I never grew up as a writer the art form found my later on in life.

Yet years later, I find myself preparing a box of those same books for an organisation whose entire mission revolves around providing access to literature for people experiencing homelessness and hardship.

That reality humbles me.

Because the truth is that I have no idea where those books will eventually go.

I have no idea who will pick one up.

I have no idea who will read the first page.

I have no idea who will make it to the final chapter.

I have no idea whose hands they will pass through.

I have no idea what battles those readers may be facing or what trauma they have experienced.

And strangely enough, that is what makes this so beautiful.

As writers, we often spend years obsessing over outcomes.

Who is reading?

How many copies sold?

What do the reviews say?

What is the reach?

What is the impact?

But some of the most meaningful things we will ever create happen beyond our ability to measure them.

A conversation changes somebody.

A kind word encourages somebody.

A testimony gives somebody hope.

A book arrives at exactly the right time.

And often we never hear about it.

The impact happens quietly.

Hidden from us.

Known only to God.

I think there is something incredibly powerful about that and as an Author I think about it often.

Because it reminds us that influence is not always visible.

Sometimes the most important work happens where nobody sees it.

I have thought a lot recently about how different my life looks compared to what I imagined years ago.

If you had spoken to eighteen-year-old Dylan lying in a hospital bed fighting meningococcal disease, publishing books would not have been on the radar.

Survival was the goal.

Making it through the day was the goal.

Getting home was the goal.

getting to tell my family I love them was on my mind.

Everything else felt secondary.

Back then I could not have imagined that one day I would write a memoir.

I certainly could not have imagined donating copies of that memoir to an organisation serving vulnerable Australians.

Life has a beautiful way of unfolding.

Not always according to our plans.

Not always according to our expectations.

But often in ways we could never have anticipated.

That thought has been sitting with me all week.

and if I am honest I have needed that this week.

Because the journey of this book has never really belonged to me.

I wrote it.

I published it.

I helped bring it into the world.

But what happened afterwards has largely been beyond my control.

Readers found it.

Libraries catalogued it.

Schools indexed it.

Bookstores listed it.

People shared it.

Conversations happened.

Doors opened.

The story kept travelling.

the book started its own journey.

And perhaps that is what stories are supposed to do.

They are supposed to move.

They are supposed to travel.

They are supposed to reach places we cannot.

That is certainly true of Scripture.

Thousands of years later, words written by faithful men continue changing lives around the world.

Words travel.

stories travel.

Truth travels.

Long after their authors are gone.

That reality has always fascinated me.

Because books possess a unique kind of endurance.

A conversation lasts minutes.

A speech lasts an hour.

A social media post disappears quickly.

But books remain.

They wait patiently.

Sometimes for years.

Sometimes for decades.

Waiting for the right reader.

Waiting for the right moment.

Waiting for somebody who needs exactly what those pages contain.

I think that is partly why this donation means so much to me.

Because it reminds me that the journey is continuing.

The story is continuing.

The testimony is continuing.

The opportunities are continuing.

And God continues using things we place in His hands.

There is another aspect of this that has deeply moved me.

Footpath Library exists because somebody recognised a need.

Somebody saw that access to books and stories should not be limited by circumstance.

Somebody recognised that literature has the power to restore dignity, provide hope, create escape, inspire imagination, and remind people they matter.

I find that beautiful.

Truly beautiful.

Because every human being has a story.

Every person matters.

Every person carries dreams, fears, wounds, regrets, hopes, and experiences that shape them.

And sometimes a book becomes a companion during difficult seasons.

Sometimes a book reminds someone they are not alone.

Sometimes a book provides language for emotions they could not previously articulate.

Sometimes a book offers hope.

a Book has a beautiful way to help someone feel like they are not alone.

Not because the author is extraordinary.

But because honesty resonates.

Truth resonates.

Human experiences resonate.

I know this because books have done that for me.

Throughout my life there have been authors who helped me understand things I was struggling to process.

Authors who challenged me.

Authors who encouraged me.

Authors who pointed me toward God.

Authors who helped me make sense of suffering.

Authors who sat beside me through seasons they never knew existed.

That is one of the great gifts of literature.

A person can influence another person's life without ever meeting them.

The connection happens through words.

Through ideas.

Through stories.

Through truth.

And next week, as I prepare that box of memoirs, I find myself thinking about that reality.

Somewhere, somebody may eventually pick up one of those books.

Perhaps they are carrying trauma.

Perhaps they are battling addiction.

Perhaps they are struggling with questions about faith.

Perhaps they feel invisible.

Perhaps they are simply trying to survive.

I do not know.

But maybe they will recognise something familiar within those pages.

Maybe they will see a little of themselves in the story.

Maybe they will discover that suffering does not get the final word.

Maybe they will discover that survival is possible.

Maybe they will discover that God remains faithful even when life feels impossibly difficult.

Or maybe they will simply find comfort knowing somebody else has walked through dark seasons and kept going.

That possibility alone makes the donation worthwhile.

Because impact has never really been about numbers.

The world often measures success through scale.

Bigger audiences.

More sales.

More attention.

More visibility.

But I increasingly believe that God measures things differently.

One life matters.

One conversation matters.

One act of kindness matters.

One story matters.

One person matters.

If a single reader finds hope through those pages, then the effort was worthwhile.

If a single reader discovers they are not alone, then the effort was worthwhile.

If a single reader begins asking deeper questions about faith, purpose, suffering, or redemption, then the effort was worthwhile.

That perspective has brought me tremendous peace over the years.

Because it frees us from constantly measuring outcomes.

It allows us to focus on faithfulness instead.

Do the work.

Tell the truth.

Plant the seed.

Trust God with the harvest.

I think that is where I find myself this morning.

Grateful.

Encouraged.

Humbled.

A little emotional, if I am honest.

Because there is something profoundly moving about watching a story continue travelling beyond your immediate field of vision.

The little boy born with cranial atresia could never have imagined this.

the little man in his room alone feeling invisible.

The eighteen-year-old fighting for his life could never have imagined this.

The young man battling addiction could never have imagined this.

Yet here we are.

Not because of talent.

Not because of brilliance.

Not because of perfect circumstances.

But because God has a habit of using imperfect people and imperfect stories for purposes we often cannot fully see.

And perhaps that is the lesson I keep returning to.

God wastes very little.

He wastes very little pain.

Very little suffering.

Very little disappointment.

Very little experience.

He has a remarkable ability to redeem things.

To repurpose things.

To transform things.

To take chapters we would rather forget and somehow weave them into something meaningful.

My memoir exists because of that reality.

Without the illness, there is no story.

Without the trauma, there is no testimony 

Without the struggle, there is no victory.

Without the redemption, there is no hope.

The difficult chapters became part of the testimony.

And now that testimony continues travelling.

That thought fills me with gratitude.

As I look ahead to next week, I find myself excited and deeply grateful.

Not because I know what will happen.

I do not.

Not because I know where every book will end up.

I have no idea.

Not because I know who will read them.

I have no clue

But because I know the story is still moving.

Still travelling.

Still finding its way into the world.

And perhaps that is one of the great privileges of being a writer.

Not simply creating something.

But releasing it.

Trusting it.

Allowing it to go where you cannot.

as I reflect back on the twelve months since I published kissed by Death is feel in a beautiful way i am a steward.

Allowing God to do things with it that you may never fully understand.

That feels like a gift.

A genuine gift.

As I sit here reflecting on all of this, I find myself smiling.

A box of books.

A non-profit organisation.

A story continuing its journey.

Simple things.

Yet somehow deeply meaningful.

And perhaps that is how God often works.

Not always through grand spectacles.

Sometimes through small acts of faithfulness.

A conversation.

A kindness.

A testimony.

A donated box of books.

And somewhere along the way, lives are touched.

Hope is strengthened.

Stories continue.

light shines in the darkness.

For that reason alone, I find myself deeply encouraged this morning as the world sleeps.

The journey continues.

And I am grateful to be part of it.

---

About the Author

Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library of Australia. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 3.9 million views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the light found in ordinary places.

• Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
• Explore the Journey: Follow Dylan on Google Maps
• Connect on Instagram: @porkysparadise