Best 3947 quotes in «grief quotes» category

Love is infinite. Grief can lead to love. Love can lead to grief. Grief is a love story told backward just as love is a grief story told backward.

LOVE IS LIKE A DESIGNER FASHION, ENJOY IT WHEN YOU HAVE IT. LET IT GO WHEN IT IS GONE BECAUSE A NEW ONE WILL COME.

Love is the only law capable of transforming grief into hope.

Love makes you strong when others are weak, brave when others are scared, hopeful when others are despairing and cheerful when others are sad.

Love may precede respect but it cannot survive the loss of it.

Love may not lead where we think or hope, but regardless of outcome it should be a call to seriousness and truth. If it is not that - if it is not moral in its effect - than love is no more than an exaggerated form of pleasure.

Love never lets go of our hands. Never. We came into the world as individual souls—held, blessed, named, loved—and we have a responsibility to our souls to keep living, living until we make our own way back home. Those who have gone before us have left torches along the path in the form of lessons imparted, examples set, and people who need our help. When we are willing to embark again on the path, to grab on to whatever rope God throws us in our times of loneliness and despair, our loved ones will be there to guide

Love's whispers drown out sorrow's echoes.

Love that brings you sorrow is better than hate that brings you joy.

...love smashes into your life like an ice floe, and even if your heart is built like the Titanic you go down

Love with open hands, with an open heart, knowing that what is given to you will die. It will change. Love anyway. You witness incredible pain in this life. Love anyway.

Love was holding someone's hand when you wanted to escape.

Lucky life isn't one long string of horrors and there are moments of peace, and pleasure, as I lie in between the blows.

Mad – empty – crazy – lost – dying... I was all of these things and nothing as well, because even though I breathed and moved, I was not alive.

Mama, I love you and miss you so very much. The absence of of your physical presence propels me further into understanding the spirit. I am inspired to be aware and mindful of everything around me because there-- you exist, always speaking to me and always with me.

Mama, I said, and then the crying came. I had not cried since I was sentenced and I had humiliated myself before a judge who didn't care. On that horrible day, my snotty sobbing had merged with Celestial and Olive's morning accompaniment. Now I suffered a cappella; the weeping burned my throat like when you vomit strong liquor. That one word, Mama, was my only prayer as I phrased on the ground like I was feeling the Holy Ghost, only what I was going through wasn't rapture. I spasmed on that cold black earth in pain, physical pain. My joints hurt; I experienced what felt like a baton against the back of my head. It was like I relived every injury of my life.. The pain went on until it didn't. and I say up, dirty and spent.

Mandy would much rather have imaginary friends who were real than real friends who were imaginary.

Mandy, I hardly think this was appropriate, not after… you know… after the funeral we haven’t had the money for any of your weird little games and I was hoping you’d be more mature now that Jud’s gone,” her father had disappointedly added. “How much’d that cake cost you?” “It’s paid for,” Mandy had argued, but her voice had sounded tiny in the harbour wind. “I used the cash from my summer job at Frenchy’s last year and I… it was my birthday, dad!” “You can’t even be normal about this one thing, can you?” her father had complained. Mandy hadn’t cried, she’d only stared back knowingly, her voice shaky. “…I’m normal.

Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive! Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon Agnes, and despair of pardon!

Man only likes counting his grief, he doesn't count his happiness. But if he were to count properly, he'd see that there's enough of both lots for him.

Many people tried comforting us with words. But there are no consoling words! I really just wanted people to be quiet. I appreciated those who cried with me, hugged me, and offered a brief prayer, but words were unnecessary.

Many people think that crying is a sign of weakness, they're wrong - it is a sign of healing.

Many people will tell that it is not for a man to cry, but they may not know how is to feel your head empty and only tears will come out to stand up for you.

Mariel’s gaze traveled to the casket at the front of the church. She couldn’t believe that Eris was really in that thing. It didn't seem big enough to hold her, with her deep, rich laugh and her exaggerated gestures and her larger-than-life emotions. This entire church—no, this entire Tower—wasn’t big enough for Eris. She was greater than all of it.

Mark Spitz didn't ask about Harry. You never asked about the characters that disappeared from a Last Night story. You knew the answer. The plague had a knack for narrative closure.

Mark put his bag on the floor and looked around. Chintz wallpaper with pink roses on a light cream background covered the walls, while drapes of the same pattern fell across French doors that obviously led outside.

Marlena's body was found on November 19, and so I consider that the anniversary of her death, though she almost certainly died on the eighteenth. Because for me, that day, she was still fully, hugely, annoyingly alive--deliberately ignoring my phone calls, up to something she'd no doubt tell me all about soon. Twelve days after November 19, I turned sixteen. Every year, it happens the same way: Marlena dies, I get older.

…Maybe I’ll be watching super-8 home videos,” Alecto told her, smiling bleakly. “I love my super-8 camera, it’s an Eastman Kodak one… Kodak stopped manufacturing them, the world went digital and now Kodak has stopped making Kodachrome film and all kinds of traditional film products… it’s sad.” “Well, uh… well, have fun watching your home movies then,” Mandy finished, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.

Maturity is the ability to live fully and equally in multiple contexts; most especially, the ability, despite our grief and losses, to courageously inhabit the past the present and the future all at once.

Maybe heartache was more normal than the absence of it.

Maybe it wasn’t the smart thing, but when you lose someone like that? They’re just gone? There’s this hole inside you you’d give anything to fill. You don’t think, you don’t plan, you just pour shit into it, anything that will fill it.

Maybe Laney's right. Maybe June did love me. But I'm far less certain that she knew I loved her. Did she realise how much I needed her around? It's not like I ever told her. I was too wrapped up in my own world to notice what was going on in hers. Even if she did know, it wasn't enough to count. It wasn't enough to make her stay. So really, what did it matter, in the end? The bottom line is, it's my fault. I didn't love her enough. I didn't do enough. I wasn't enough. There's no excuse. There is nothing that will ever make that okay.

Maybe that's what writers do- Maybe they exaggerate pain just so that you feel okay about what you're feeling.

Maybe the best way to reach for God is to reach for one another.

Maybe their sorrow over children that never came should have brought the two men closer. But sorrow is unreliable in that way. When people don't share it there's a good chance that it will drive them apart instead.

Maybe there is no one way to deal with grief, but knowing that we're not totally alone is the best we can do.

Maybe this is a second doctoral program: advanced learning about life, death, marriage, mothering, family, faith, patience, prayer. My degree will be 'Doctor of Life,' and I will be in good company. So many of us earn our 'Doctor of Life' degrees.

Maybe what I'd thought was my superpower was actually just this: I was finally able to see that nothing was simply good or bad, that everyone contained multitudes, and that I, like anyone, was a beautiful, swirling, chaotic galaxy of all the things that had ever happened to me.

Maybe when we face a tragedy, someone, somewhere is preventing a bigger tragedy from happening.

May you know always that you are never alone, that life and love are eternal, and that you are extraordinary.

May you hear my feeble voice! It will tell you that here below there is a heart full of the memory of you.

Meanwhile there was work to do: raising our children, wading through a mass of legal papers, finances, and taxes, and recovering the professional life that was now our sole support, while, at a subterranean level, feeling adrift in dark, unknown waters. And though I'd flared with anger when the priest at Heinz's funeral had warned not to be "angry at God" because of his sudden and violent death, I struggled not to sink under currents of fear, anger, and confusion that roiled an ocean of grief.

Memories are precious, but they are part of the past. The things we treasure, whether a facet of a memory, a particular aspect of a loved one, or a tangible talisman, we carry with us—always. They continue to inform us about our loved ones and remind us that life is ongoing, that we can still learn from those who have died and can still feel their presence. The smell of Old Spice will forever be my grandfather. My bony wrists and the veins in my hands are remnants of my grandmother. These small things are treasures that will never lose their value and cannot be taken from me.

Memories saturate my heart and  the story of you spills from my eyes.          ­­—Grace Andren

Melly is the only woman friend I ever had,” she thought forlornly, “the only woman except Mother who really loved me. She’s like Mother, too. Everyone who knew her has clung to her skirts.

Mid-Term Break I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying— He had always taken funerals in his stride— And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'. Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four-foot box, a foot for every year.

Michiko Nogami (1946—1982)” Is she more apparent because she is not anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white because she was the color of pale honey? A smokestack making the sky more visible. A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko said, “The roses you gave me kept me awake with the sound of their petals falling.

Mijn vader huilde nooit. Als hij bedroefd was, liep hij naar de tempel van de onbekende heilige. Daar knielde hij naast het graf, tikte zachtjes met een steentje tegen de grafsteen, praatte met de heilige en als hij zich weer beter voelde, wandelde hij terug naar huis.

Minute by minute, then hour by hour, then day by day. Work is solace," he said, "friends are comfort. Life is for the living. You and I know that, even though we spend so much time with the dead - maybe because of that we know we have to live. Chale has been a great help to me." "That's good," she said, thinking of the priest she'd suggested Morris talk to. "You can ... you know, anytime." "Yes." His lips curved. "I know. You're work, and a friend, so have been both solace and comfort.

Minute by minute, a day passed.