The Unexpected Encouragement
This morning I am sitting quietly with my first coffee of the day.
The house is still.
The sky outside is only just beginning to wake up.
In a little while I will put on my uniform, get ready for work, and head off for another shift at Gold Coast University Hospital.
But before the day begins, I find myself sitting here reflecting.
It has been a difficult week.
One of the more difficult weeks I have experienced in quite some time.
There have been disappointments.
Questions.
Conversations I never expected to have.
Chapters that ended much sooner than I thought they would.
Plans that suddenly changed.
The kind of week that leaves you emotionally exhausted before you even realise how tired you are.
To be honest, I have spent much of the last several days trying to process everything.
Trying to make sense of things.
Trying to understand what God is doing.
Trying to understand why certain doors close while others open.
Trying to reconcile disappointment and faith at the same time.
And if I am being completely honest, I am still doing that.
I still do not have all the answers.
I still have questions.
I still have moments where I feel frustrated.
I still have moments where I feel hurt.
I still have moments where I wish things had unfolded differently.
That is simply where I am.
But this morning something happened that genuinely encouraged me.
The kind of encouragement that arrives unexpectedly.
The kind that catches you off guard.
The kind that feels like God quietly placing His hand on your shoulder when you need it most.
This morning I discovered that my memoir Kissed by Death my journey to finding life in the darkness has been indexed through Lamont Schools.
I sat there staring at the screen for a few moments.
Not because it was unbelievable.
But because of what it represented.
Sometimes when you spend years working on something, you lose perspective.
You become so close to it that you stop seeing it clearly.
You remember the editing.
The revisions.
The setbacks.
The mistakes.
The long nights.
The tears and self doubt.
The moments where you wondered whether anybody would ever read it.
The doubt that seeps in when you pour your life out to the world to read.
You remember the effort more than the outcome.
And I think that is exactly where I found myself this morning.
Because seeing my memoir indexed through a school supplier was not simply about another listing.
It was not simply another website.
It was not simply another distribution point.
It represented something bigger.
It represented reach.
It represented legitimacy.
It represented the possibility that my story may continue travelling into places I may never personally see.
And that thought humbled me and made me emotional.
I think back to where this story began.
Not the book.
The story itself.
The real story.
The story before the writing.
The story before the publishing.
The story before the ISBN numbers and book covers and distribution channels.
The story of a broken young man trying to survive.
The story of sickness.
The story of trauma and sadness.
The story of surgeries.
The story of meningococcal disease.
The story of addiction.
The story of loss and heartbreak.
The story of trying to understand why God allowed certain things to happen.
If someone had told that younger version of me that one day his story would be catalogued and distributed through schools across Australia, I genuinely would not have believed them.
Not because I lacked ambition.
But because survival was consuming enough.
There were seasons where I was not thinking about publishing books.
I was thinking about making it through the week.
There were seasons where I was not thinking about writing memoirs.
I was thinking about simply staying alive.
That is the reality.
Sometimes when people see a finished product, they do not see the years underneath it.
They see the book.
They do not see the battle.
They see the outcome.
They do not see the process.
They see the publication.
They do not see the suffering that produced it.
But I do.
I remember it.
Every bit of it.
And maybe that is why this moment means so much to me.
Because the book was never just a book.
At least not to me.
It was a testimony.
It was an act of obedience.
It was a declaration that God had not abandoned me.
Even when life felt impossible.
Even when darkness seemed louder than hope.
Even when addiction whispered lies into my ear.
Even when circumstances made no sense.
The book became a way of saying that God was faithful in places where I could not always see Him clearly.
And now that testimony continues moving into places I never expected.
There is something beautiful about that.
Something deeply humbling.
I think one of the biggest surprises of becoming an author is discovering that your work eventually develops a life beyond you.
When you first write something, it feels incredibly personal.
The words belong to you.
The memories belong to you.
The experiences belong to you.
The pain belongs to you.
Then you publish it.
And suddenly it begins travelling.
It finds readers you have never met.
It enters conversations you never hear.
In its own powerful way it starts its own journey.
It impacts people whose names you may never know.
The work begins doing things independently of you.
That reality still amazes me.
Because every now and then someone reaches out.
Someone leaves a review.
Someone sends a message.
Someone tells me a chapter resonated with them.
Someone shares their own story.
And I am reminded again that God can use things we never fully understand.
I think that is what encouraged me most this morning.
Not the indexing itself.
Not the distribution.
Not even the recognition.
What encouraged me was the reminder that God continues working through things long after we release them into His hands.
That lesson extends far beyond books.
It applies to ministry.
It applies to relationships.
It applies to life.
So often we plant seeds without knowing where they will grow.
We have conversations without knowing their impact.
We encourage people without knowing what they are carrying.
We share our testimony without knowing who needs to hear it.
We do the work.
God handles the outcomes.
And perhaps that is exactly what I needed to remember this week.
Because if I am honest, much of this week has felt like loss.
Bible college ended unexpectedly.
Plans changed.
Questions appeared.
Uncertainty arrived.
And when uncertainty arrives, it becomes easy to focus exclusively on what is ending.
Human beings naturally stare at closed doors.
I certainly do.
We focus on what was lost.
What could have been.
What should have happened.
What we expected.
And while there is nothing wrong with grieving those things, sometimes we become so focused on the door that closed that we miss the evidence of God's faithfulness happening elsewhere.
This morning felt like one of those reminders.
A quiet reminder.
A gentle reminder.
A reminder that while one chapter may have ended unexpectedly, another chapter continues moving forward.
Because while Bible college has ended, the writing continues.
The ministry continues.
The testimony continues.
The opportunities continue.
God continues.
The cross still stands shining in the light of eternity.
And maybe that is what I needed to hear.
Not from a preacher.
Not from a podcast.
Not from a conference stage.
But from an unexpected listing on a website over morning coffee.
I think about all the places this memoir has travelled.
Australia.
Libraries.
Bookstores.
Readers' homes.
And now school networks.
Every one of those places represents people.
Real people.
People carrying their own stories.
Their own pain.
Their own trauma.
Their own questions.
Their own battles.
And perhaps somewhere along the way, my story helps somebody feel less alone.
If that happens, then every difficult chapter was worth writing.
Every painful memory was worth revisiting.
Every vulnerable page was worth publishing.
Because at the end of the day, stories matter.
Not because they glorify us.
But because they point beyond us.
The older I get, the less interested I become in recognition and the more interested I become in impact.
Recognition fades.
Impact remains.
Awards gather dust.
Influence continues.
Titles come and go.
Lives touched by truth continue carrying that truth long after we are gone.
And perhaps that is the real legacy every writer hopes for.
Not fame.
Not attention.
Not applause.
Impact.
I think that is what I felt this morning
Gratitude.
Deep gratitude.
Not because everything is going perfectly.
It is not.
Not because I suddenly have answers.
I do not.
Not because all my disappointment disappeared overnight.
I am still wrestling.
But because for a brief moment, God reminded me that He is still moving.
Still opening doors.
Still creating opportunities.
Still using things I placed in His hands years ago.
As I sit here finishing the last of my coffee, I find myself smiling.
Not because this week has been easy.
It has been anything but easy.
But because this morning reminded me that difficult weeks do not get the final word.
Disappointment does not get the final word.
Confusion does not get the final word.
Closed doors do not get the final word.
God does.
And perhaps that is enough for today.
A simple reminder.
A small encouragement.
A quiet moment before work.
A memoir indexed through a school supplier.
A testimony continuing to travel further than I ever imagined.
And a God who remains faithful even when life refuses to make sense.
That feels worth celebrating.
Especially at the end of a difficult week.
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
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