Quotes About Grief

The body element of the flesh, full of sin and lust, naturally cannot but express itself in many sins, much to the grief of the Holy Spirit.

She was married to my dad, and everything was fine until he got killed in some freak tractor accident. Yeah, that's what I said, a freak tractor accident.

But I've never spoken to a grave before. I don't know what to say. I don't know how. 'I'm so sorry,' I choke out, but that's as far as I get before I start crying. I feel bad that she's gone. I feel overwhelmed. And I feel guilt. Guilt that I've recovered. Guilt that I'm happy. Guilt that I ever thought she was the lucky one.

After a while, though the grief did not go away from us, it grew quiet. What had seemed a storm wailing through the entire darkness seemed to come in at last and lie down.

The mercy of the world is time. Time does not stop for love, but it does not stop for death and grief, either.

New grief, when it came, you could feel filling the air. It took up all the room there was. The place itself, the whole place, became a reminder of the absence of the hurt or the dead or the missing one. I don't believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.

The mercy of the world is time. Time does not stop for love, but it does not stop for death and grief, either. After death and grief that (it seems) ought to have stopped the world, the world goes on. More things happen. And some of the things that happen are good.

[E]very winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into the vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay— Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses...

Every winter, When the great sun has turned his face away, The earth goes down into a vale of grief, And fasts, and weeps, and shrouds herself in sables, Leaving her wedding-garlands to decay-- Then leaps in spring to his returning kisses.

Simos said, "Grief work must be shared. In sharing, however, there must be no impatience, censure or boredom with the repetition, because repetition is necessary for catharsis and internalization and eventual unconscious acceptance of the reality of the loss. The bereaved are sensitive to the feelings of others and will not only refrain from revealing feelings to those they consider unequal to the burden of sharing the grief but may even try to comfort the helpers." (97)

When we allow ourselves to feel these painful feelings, give them an accurate name, and when we share the grief with safe and supportive others over time, we are able to complete our grief work and thus be free of it.

When we are not allowed to remember, to express our feelings and to grieve or mourn our losses or traumas, whether real or threatened, through the free expression of our Child Within, we become ill. Thus we can consider viewing a spectrum of unresolved grieving as beginning with mild symptoms or signs of grief, to co-dependence, to PTSD.

I don't know the meaning of life. I don't know why we are here. I think life is full of anxieties and fears and tears. It has a lot of grief in it, and it can be very grim. And I do not want to be the one who tries to tell somebody else what life is all about. To me it's a complete mystery.

Death is the greatest form of love.

Ashley tried to speak. Tried again and still could not find the words. Finally she wiped her eyes, pressed her ear to my chest, and whispered. 'Give me all the pieces.

I had to let her go. She's not coming back. The distance is too great. The mountain between us is the one mountain I cannot climb.

I had to let her go. She's not coming back. The distance is too great. The mountain between us is the one mountain I cannot climb. I thought you should know.

You can't tell a dead man you're sorry.

Letting myself experience or desire pleasure is like a shot through the heart of their memory.

some people take all the pain they've been knowing their whole life and pack it down inside them where it festers, oozing pus. Gangrene of the soul. That sore then becomes them. It's what bubbles up. You can smell it.

It also produced a painful longing to hear his voice just one more time.

I saw an infinity of such dreary evenings stretching out ahead of me. Trapped in a dirty old house with a grieving old woman and an irritable young one. And with only the books I had brought with me, most of which were still in my trunk anyway.

An earlier plan to marry again had collapsed when her fiancé was killed in a motorcycle accident. His name was Don and he had taught oriental methods of self-defense in a martial arts academy. "They called it an accident," she said, "but I think the government had him killed because he knew too much about flying saucers.

I lost my own daughter and I'll never have another. The hurt doesn't go away, no matter what you tell yourself. It's there day and night. I'd have killed any man who touched her. Why should I stand for such talk about another man's child, if I wouldn't have stood for it about my own?