Of Personal Hell, Vessels, and What Connects Us All

I write Christian dark fantasy.

Not the kind that chases horror for horror’s sake or traffics in gore and shock value. I write stories where angels fall, demons remember they were once loved, and mortals walk shadowed paths lined with consequence and grace.

Because I don’t believe light matters until you’ve seen how deep the darkness can go.

As a Christian who chooses to write in this genre, I’ve often found myself reflecting on deeper spiritual truths—not just for my characters, but for myself. Lately, I’ve been dwelling on hell. Not just the hell of fire and brimstone, but the personal hells we each carry. Quiet hells. The kind you don’t see until someone lets down their guard: regret, addiction, shame, loneliness, chronic fear, old wounds that still ache in silence.

Hell isn’t always a distant realm—it can be a memory, a relationship, a mindset. It can be waking up every day and wondering if anything will ever get better. We all have our own version of it, and sometimes, we don’t even realize we’re still living there.

And then there’s the parable of the potter and the clay.

The vessel, misshapen or cracked, isn’t discarded—it’s reformed. The Potter begins again, gently pressing, reshaping, refining. Sometimes, fire is necessary, but it’s never the end. I think about that a lot. I think about how many people see their flaws as fatal. How many believe they’ve been broken beyond use.

But God doesn't toss us out because we're imperfect. He uses even our brokenness to tell a better story. Grace doesn’t come after we’re whole; it begins the moment we admit we’re not.

In my writings, the real monsters aren’t always demons with claws—they’re people who have forgotten how to feel. They’re the ones who gave up on tenderness, who built walls instead of bridges. And still, even they are not beyond redemption. Because underneath the ash and armor, we all want to be seen. We all want to be loved. We all long for home.

And that brings me to what I think truly connects us—not theology or ritual, not intellect or ideology, but something simpler and more sacred:

Kindness. Character. Compassion.

Kindness that asks nothing in return.

Character that remains when no one is watching.

Compassion that reaches across fear, difference, and pain.

These are the things that light up the darkest pages. These are the fingerprints of God on the human soul. When someone chooses gentleness instead of cruelty—especially when they’ve known cruelty themselves—that’s light. That’s rebellion against the darkness.

We are all vessels. Some are cracked. Some are still soft, still spinning on the wheel. Some have been through the fire and still bear the marks. But none of us are useless. None of us are alone.

So when you meet someone, assume they’ve walked through flames. Maybe they still are. Choose gentleness. Be the voice that reminds them they are not too far gone.

That’s the true magic. That’s the Gospel, disguised in flesh and bone. That’s what saves us—not perfection, but love.

And that’s why I write stories wrapped in shadow. Because sometimes, the only way to show people the light… is to walk with them into the dark.