Best 222 quotes in «comforting quotes» category

Affliction equips the suffering to empathize with others in anguish and not only does it strengthen them, it enables them to be consoling comforters in a world full of hurt.

Go to sleep, dweller-baby. I’ll kill Elowin as soon as we find her.” He didn’t sound like he was kidding. Each word was low and laced with truth. “Next time, just say like … sleep well, or something normal,” I said. “Not go to sleep, I’ll be murdering someone in no time. It doesn’t sound as comforting as you think it does.

Hey,' he said, touching my waist. 'Hey. It's okay.' I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my hand. 'He sucks.' I nodded again. 'I'll write you an epilogue,' Gus said. That made me cry harder. 'I will,' he said. 'I will. Better than any sh*t that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese. He doesn't even remember writing the book. I can write ten times the story that guy can. There will be blood and guts and sacrifice. An Imperial Affliction meets The Prince of Dawn. You'll love it.' I kept nodding, faking a smile, and then he hugged me, his strong arms pulling me into his muscular chest, and I sogged up his polo shirt a little but then recovered enough to speak.

If there be any among those common objects of hatred which I can safely say I doe contemn and laugh at, it is that great enemy of reason, vertue and religion, the multitude, that numerous piece of monstrosity, which taken asunder seeme men, and the reasonable creatures of God; but confused together, make but one great beast, & a monstrosity more prodigious than Hydra; it is no breach of Charity to call these fooles; it is the stile all holy Writers have afforded them, set down by Solomon in canonicall Scripture, and a point of our faith to beleeve so.

Instead I turned my attention back to the copper of peach jam, releasing its autumnal scent. Peach is perhaps the most perfect fruit for making jam: sweet, yet firm; the golden flesh turning to a darker burnt-orange with cooking. My method allows the pieces of fruit to stay intact during the process, while retaining all the flavor. Today, we will leave the sugar and peach mixture to steep under a sheet of muslin; tomorrow, we will cook it, then ladle it into clean glass jars to put away for the winter. There's something very comforting about the ritual of jam-making. It speaks of cellars filled with preserves; of neat rows of jars on pantry shelves. It speaks of winter mornings and bowls of chocolat au lait, with thick slices of good fresh bread and last year's peach jam, like a promise of sunshine at the darkest point of the year. It speaks of four stone walls, a roof, and of seasons that turn in the same place, in the same way, year after year, with sweet familiarity. It is the taste of home.

It is difficult to have faith when our hearts are consumed by fear, but it is when we are afraid that we need to hang onto our faith the most.

He sits at the table and reads novels, old favorites of his, the words and plots and characters comforting and lived-in and unchanged.

Instinctively I started to panic when Dr. Martinez strapped my arm down, and then the panic just melted away, la la la. Someone took my other hand. Fang. I felt his calluses, his bones, his strength. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I slurred, smiling dopily up at him. I took in his startled, worried expression but dismissed it. “I know everything’s fine if you’re here.” I thought I saw his cheeks flush, but I wasn’t too sure of anything anymore.

May the nights always be aglow with the bliss of the day with unharmed hands and feet and kissed cheeks.

One ought to have some sort of transcendent realization that the world exists because the gods are trapped in the same abyss you've occupied for three years. It should be inspiring or comforting or, I don't know, cathartic.

Scratching Yogi's ears Michelle says 'That's just part of his job, the comforting. That's what I mean by the bhatisvata. That he's more concerned with comforting and helping, even more than his own well-being." This is a trait that more "people" should encompass.

She was swamped by a feeling of utter hopelessness as she waited for him to destroy her with a few caustic words. But he continued to watch her silently, his face unreadable. It seemed almost as if he were waiting for some cue from her. The dilemma lasted for several seconds, until Sara solved it by bursting into tears. She jerked her hands up to her face, blotting her streaming eyes. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. Suddenly he was next to her, touching her shoulders and arms lightly and then jerking his hands back as if burned. "No, don't. Don't. You're all right now." Gingerly he reached out to pat her back. "Don't cry. Everything's fine. Bloody hell. Don't do that." As she continued to weep, Derek hovered over her in baffled dismay. He excelled at seducing women, charming and deceiving them, breaking down their defenses... everything but comforting them. No one had ever required it of him. "There, now," he muttered, as he had heard Lily Raiford say a thousand times to her crying children. "There, now." Suddenly she was leaning on him, her small head testing at the center of his chest. The long skeins of her hair draped everywhere, entangling him in a fine russet web. Alarmed, he lifted his hands to ease her away. Instead his arms slid around her until she was pressed against him length to length. "Miss Fielding," he said with great effort. "Sara..." She nestled deeper against him, muffling her gulping sobs in his shirtfront. Derek swore and furtively pressed his lips to the top of her head. He concentrated on the chilly night air, but his loins began to throb with an all-too-familiar pain. It was impossible to stay indifferent to the feel of her body molded to his. He was a bloody charlatan... no gentleman, no chivalrous comforter of women, only a scoundrel filled with raw desire. He smoothed his hand over her hair and urged her head into his shoulder until she was in danger of being smothered. "It's all right," he said gruffly. "Everything's fine now. Don't cry anymore.

She was swamped by a feeling of utter hopelessness as she waited for him to destroy her with a few caustic words. But he continued to watch her silently, his face unreadable. It seemed almost as if he were waiting for some cue from her. The dilemma lasted for several seconds, until Sara solved it by bursting into tears. She jerked her hands up to her face, blotting her streaming eyes. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. Suddenly he was next to her, touching her shoulders and arms lightly and then jerking his hands back as if burned. "No, don't. Don't. You're all right now." Gingerly he reached out to pat her back. "Don'y cry. Everything's fine. Bloody hell. Don't do that." As she continued to weep, Derek hovered over her in baffled dismay. He excelled at seducing women, charming and deceiving them, breaking down their defenses... everything but comforting them. No one had ever required it of him. "There, now," he muttered, as he had heard Lily Raiford say a thousand times to her crying children. "There, now." Suddenly she was leaning on him, her small head testing at the center of his chest. The long skeins of her hair draped everywhere, entangling him in a fine russet web. Alarmed, he lifted his hands to ease her away. Instead his arms slid around her until she was pressed against him length to length. "Miss Fielding," he said with great effort. "Sara..." She nestled deeper against him, muffling her gulping sobs in his shirtfront. Derek swore and furtively pressed his lips to the top of her head. He concentrated on the chilly night air, but his loins began to throb with an all-too-familiar pain. It was impossible to stay indifferent to the feel of her body molded to his. He was a bloody charlatan... no gentleman, no chivalrous comforter of women, only a scoundrel filled with raw desire. He smoothed his hand over her hair and urged her head into his shoulder until she was in danger of being smothered. "It's all right," he said gruffly. "Everything's fine now. Don't cry anymore.

She waves the match in the air like a magic wand and its flame transforms into a puff of smoke. The smoke curls and stretches into a halo around auntie's gray hair.

...shiny trinkets and frivolous spending make people forget what world they're living in.

SOAR" Soar now among angels and rest in God's arms, free from this world, suffer no more..... Walk in the light and fell the warmth of God's love... no pain, no worry. You are truly free. "SOAR NOW" Your spirit is one with God, and from on high, may angels comfort you...... Because of you, this world is a better place You made "life" better You made "people" better... You were a special blessing on this earth and you brought happiness, joy, love and laughter... as only you could bring. We look up and we see you in the heavens! Your smile, your face........and God is beside you! Your spirit and soul are at peace and you are forever free to soar. SOAR NOW! Tjsilba, Collections of Life

The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.

The way I see it, life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don´t alway soften the bad things but vice versa the bad things don´t necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant.

True love is like a bird of many colours, at times, soft and comforting, at others, wild and intense. Yet, it is a fire we all desire. Don’t be afraid of its intense force. It is a spark that consumes the heart, but it quenches the thirst of the seeking soul.

We have to expect disappointments, trouble, losses and hurts as an inevitable part of life. It is vital to repeat to ourselves the most important and comforting words of all time: THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS AWAY!

When she sat down to write, she didn't have to wade back into the story slowly, waiting to get used to the temperature.

When we are sad...it can be comforting to cling to familiar objects, to things that don't change.

A belief may be comforting. Only through your own experience, however, does it become liberating.

Alcohol may also persuade us that we have found the truth about life, a comforting experience rarely available in the sober hour.

My loneliness was an important part of my own little universe, not some pathological disease that needs to be gotten [sic] rid of.

She looked so disappointed, so grieved and desperate that Clem longed to comfort her, only he couldn't think of thing to say that she hadn't heard a hundred times from Dad and Dr. Snow and Mrs. Mack: how things would get better in time, though no one knew how much time, and that life might be a little better for her and Jess once school began again.

She looked up at Christopher compassionately. "I think your problem will fade in time, as mine has. And then it might come back every once in a while, but only briefly. It won't always be this bad." Torchlight flickered in Christopher's eyes as he stared at her. He reached out and drew her close with slow, stunning tenderness. One of his hands cradled her jaw, his long fingers textured with calluses. To Beatrix's bewilderment, he eased her head against his shoulder. His arms were around her, and nothing had ever felt so wonderful. She leaned against him in a daze of pleasure, feeling the even rise and fall of his chest. He toyed with the tiny wisps at the nape of her neck, the brush of his thumb on her skin sending a rapturous quiver down her spine.

Soeur Marie Emelie" Soeur Marie Emelie is little and very old: her eyes are onyx, and her cheeks vermilion, her apron wide and kind and cobalt blue. She comforts generations and generations of children, who are "new" at the convent school. When they are eight, they are already up to her shoulder, they grow up and go into the world, she remains, forever, always incredibly old, but incredibly never older... She has an affinity with the hens, When a hen dies,she sits down on a bench and cries, she is the only grown-up, whose tears are not frightening tears. Children can weep without shame, at her side... Soeur Marie Emelie... her apron as wide and kind as skies on a summer day and as clean and blue.

Their locked hands offered a stark reminder of how many scars lingered … shards of war and distressing anguish forever branded them. Yet in this endearing moment of comfort, their adversity became skinspeak between survivors phoenixing from the ashes of their perilous journey—their burning eagerness for survival overcoming the forces that once tried to stifle their light.

There is no record in Scripture that an angel visited John’s cell to explain the meaning of his persecution. This great, godly man who was the designated forerunner to Jesus went through the same confusing experiences as we. It is comforting to know that John responded in a very human way. He sent a secret message to Jesus from his prison cell, asking “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?” (Matthew 11:3). Have you ever felt like asking that question?

Those of noble soul will always do what is right regardless of immediate outside consequences or judgement.

We hold on to poetry because it lights a fire in our soul and keeps our bodies warm.

When I am not with you I am alone, For there is no one else And there is nothing That comforts me but you. When you are gone Suddenly I am sick, Blackness is round me, There is nothing left. I have tried many things, Music and cities, Stars in their constellations And the sea, But there is nothing That comforts me but you; And my poor pride bows down Like grass in a rain-storm Drenched with my longing. The night is unbearable, Oh let me go to you For there is no one, There is nothing To comfort me but you.

A belief in the purposeful complexity of Fate is always more comforting than random, straightforward facts. This may be why Mother preferred to believe in Atlantis and UFOs rather than in virtually everything else.

A comforting acquaintance, hope, a contagious thing like spring, inebriating like lager.

All natural disasters are comforting because they reaffirm our impotence, in which, otherwise, we might stop believing. At times it is strangely sedative to know the extent of your own powerlessness.

Always be suspicious of conclusions that reinforce uncritical hope and follow comforting traditions of Western thought.

Angels will frequently - even when they're comforting us with good news - touch the awe of God's eternal presence and drive us to our knees before our God of glory.

All I can do is engage with complete sincerity. Then whatever happens, there is no regret.

A lot of people have found the idea of living your life over and over again absolutely terrifying; there's some people that find it very comforting. There are others that are appalled by it.

Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together.

And I really do believe that the most important thing is the way you live your life on earth. But I think it's enormously comforting to believe that you're going to see your loved ones.

As a competitor, winner or loser, one crosses the line into limbo. The adrenaline is gone, the anticipation is gone. The verdict is either comforting or devestating but it neithers returns the exhilaration of the race nor helps directly to win the next. Maybe all that matters is that there is a next.

Another thing I learned is that novels, even those from apparently distant times and places, remain current and enlightening, and also comforting.

A secret, if it's kept, can be sweet and comforting, but once it leaks out it can turn on you with a vengeance.

Astronomers say the universe is finite, which is a comforting thought for those people who can't remember where they leave things.

Better the hard truth, I say, than the comforting fantasy.

Bakers get excited over aprons. I love the soft cotton ones with pockets like my gramma and mom wore. They always kept a hankie tucked in one pocket, which wasn't sanitary, but was comforting to the child who needed a tear or nose wiped.

Because of an instability at my own core, it comforts me to live, fixed, within a story. If reading is our consolation for having been allotted only one life, I find that writing oneself into a fictional world is even more comforting.

Better the hard truth, I say, than the comforting fantasy. And in the final tolling it often turns out that the facts are more comforting than the fantasy.