Quotes About Vulnerability

Far off, men swell, bully and threaten: bring them hand to hand, and they are a feeble folk.

Our strength grows out of our weakness

Our interactions with one another reflect a dance between love and fear.

We often think that vulnerability is a kind of weakness, but there's a kind of vulnerability that is actually strength and presence.

When you are in the presence of unconditional love, you are in the optimum environment for your heart to open.

The art of life is to stay wide open and be vulnerable, yet at the same time to sit with the mystery and the awe and with the unbearable pain—to just be with it all.

A Greek philosopher said, 'All men think it is only the other man who is mortal'. The way we scurry about accumulating things is testimony to our unspoken doctrine that we are exceptions to the law of death. The events of September 11, 2001, were a shocking reminder to millions of Americans of something we should have already understood - our mortality.

When you pretend you don't feel hurt or angry or devastated, you're not fooling God. Be honest! Don't misunderstand; I am not encouraging you to be angry at God or to blame him. He deserves no blame. Rather, I am encouraging you to honestly confess to God your feelings of hurt, resentment, and anger. Often we look at suffering from our perspective and forget that God sees from another vantage point.

Being disconnected from the local church, for whatever reason, is a dangerous way to live...like lone sheep away from the safety of the flock and the watchful care of the shepherd, [these lone rangers] are vulnerable to predators of every sort." —Nancy Leigh DeMoss

Once it is acceptable to kill unborn children, no one who is weak or vulnerable can be safe. Is a handicapped person fully human? Is his life meaningful? How about the elderly? If those who cannot think do not deserve to live, what about those who think the wrong way?

Things you did at night could be pretty embarrassing in the light of day.

When we have overcome absence with phone calls, winglessness with airplanes, summer heat with air-conditioning—when we have overcome all these and much more besides, then there will abide two things with which we must cope: the evil in our hearts and death.

Our lives are shaped by others literally from birth, and even the best of intentions can result in the most unexpected of hurts.

Es más fácil esconderse detrás de argumentos filosóficos, llenos de notas a pie de página para impresionar, que admitir nuestras heridas, nuestras confusiones, nuestros amores y nuestras pasiones en el mercado de las transacciones de la vida.

Do you understand now why books are hated and feared? Because they reveal the pores on the face of life. The comfortable people want only the faces of the full moon, wax, faces without pores, hairless, expressionless.

There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that's too many. Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers come and take your blood. Good God, who were those men? I never saw them before in my life!

Some boys walk by and you cry, seeing them. They feel good, they look good, they are good. Oh, they're not above peeing off a bridge, or stealing an occasional dime-store pencil sharpener; it's not that. It's just, you know, seeing them pass, that's how they'll be all their life; they'll get hit, hurt, cut, bruised, and always wonder why, why does it happen? how can it happen to them?

YOU CAN'T DEPEND ON PEOPLE BECAUSE... ...they go away. ...strangers die. ...people you know fairly well die. ...friends die. ...people murder people, like in books. ...your own folks can die. So...

We're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, someday it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be.

Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer.

He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it.

I feel alive for the first time in years. I feel I'm doing what I should've done a lifetime ago. For a little while I'm not afraid. Maybe it's because I'm doing the right thing at last. Maybe it's because I've done a rash thing and don't want to look the coward to you. I suppose I'll have to do even more violent things, exposing myself so I won't fall down on the job and turn scared again

I'm afraid of them and they don't like me because I'm afraid.

I'm never going to own anything can hurt me.