Quotes About Compassion

We must all make peace so that we can all live in peace.

?nsan kendi karanl?klarda bo?ulurken, ba?kalar?na nas?l ???k da??t?r?

No es posible mostrar a una mujer un hombre apuesto que llora sin que se diga 'Desde luego, yo le habría amado mejor

In English sometimes they call a mentally disabled person a retard, and there is a kind of accidental poetry in naming a human being with this quality of latency or absence, like a clock left behind in an empty room, a page someone forgot to rip out of a calendar, the walking embodiment of jet lag.

In un certo paese vivevano un uomo molto ricco e un uomo molto povero. Ognuno aveva un figlio. L'uomo molto ricco salì con il figlio sulla cima di una collina, gli indicò con un gesto il paesaggio circostante e gli disse: L'uomo molto povero salì con il figlio sulla cima della stessa collina, gli indicò il paesaggio circostante e gli disse semplicemente:

Like her father, Bess never forgot a hurt or a service.

Like her father, Bess never forgot a hurt of a service.

Mrs. Fitch's Compassionate Tea---contains plant essences only. Listed below, the ingredients: Matricaria recutita, rosehips, passion flower, fennel, and more. Especially beneficial for ladies' ailments. Add harp song when in season.

I invite everyone to chose forgiveness rather than division, teamwork over personal ambition.

It is not in a man's creed, but in his deeds; not in his knowledge, but in his sympathy, that there lies the essence of what is good and of what will last in human life.

No one can stay in a brutal, bloodstained place.

She doesn't rebuke herself for thinking it; she does herself the small kindness of forgiving her malfunctioning logic.

It seems impossible that good people – so many good people – can exist in the same world where men shoot up whole families at birthday parties and then stand over their corpses and eat their chicken.

Ángela has been a nurse in this city long enough to know that the pain of the family often eclipses the pain of the patient.

Many of them look Luca and Mami right in the eye, and say, "God bless you," and they smile. Luca would like to smile back, but he feels peculiar, too. He is unaccustomed to pity.

At worst, we perceive them as an invading mob of resource-draining criminals, and, at best, a sort of helpless, impoverished, faceless brown mass, clamoring for help at our doorstep. We seldom think of them as our fellow human beings.

His grief is not the same as hers.

That pang Lydia felt had many parts: it was anger at the injustice, it was worry, compassion, helplessness. But in truth, it was a small feeling, and when she realized she was out of garlic, the pang was subsumed by domestic irritation. Dinner would be bland. Sebastián wouldn't complain, but she'd register the mild disapproval on his features, and she'd feel provoked. She'd try not to start an argument.

Paola is a stranger, but her hands on Lydia's back are the hands of God. They are Sebastián's and Yemi's and Yénifer's. They are her mother's hands.

Luca has difficulty reconciling all the genuine kindness of strangers. It seems impossible that good people—so many good people—can exist in the same world where men shoot up whole families at birthday parties and then stand over their corpses and eat their chicken.

In the morning, a local resident drapes a hose over the garden wall so the migrants can brush their teeth, wet their faces, and fill their canteens. A contingent of older ladies walks the tracks, passing out blessings with homemade bagged sandwiches and pickles. A guard from the hut calls Luca over and passes him a grape lollipop through the chain-link fence.

At worst, we perceive them as an invading mob of resource-draining criminals, and, at best, a sort of helpless, impoverished, faceless brown mass, clamoring for help at our doorstep. We seldom think of them as our fellow human beings. People with the agency to make their own decisions, people who can contribute to their own bright futures, and to ours, as so many generations of oft-reviled immigrants have done before them.

She's donated money. She's wondered with the sort of detached fascination of the comfortable elite how dire the conditions of their lives must be wherever they come from, that this is the better option. That these people would leave their homes, their cultures, their families, even their languages, and venture into tremendous peril, risking their very lives, all for the chance to get to the dream of some faraway country that doesn't even want them.

If you're a person who has the capacity to be a bridge, why not be a bridge?