Quotes About Struggle

This was Mississippi, where for years whites shot blacks for any reason or no reason and no one cared; where whites raped blacks and it was considered sport; where blacks were hanged for fighting back.

I believe in God," he said, truthfully but weakly. "It's easy to say that," she said, her words still slow and soft. "And I don't doubt you. But saying is one thing, living is another matter.

Today was the worst day of his professional life, but tomorrow would be better.

You miss the whole point, Pastor. What I did was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself. Why couldn't I stop myself? Because of what I am. I wasn't born this way. I became a man with a lot of problems, not because of my DNA, but because of what society demanded. Lock ' em up. Punish the hell out of them. And if you make a few monsters along the way, to bad.

You're not ready. You're not ready, because you're not angry, Baxter. You must reach a point where you're angry at your old self, your old life, your addictions. You have to hate the way you were, and when this hatred and anger consumes you, then you'll have the determination not to go back there.

He prayed long and hard for justice and healing, but was a bit light on mercy.

Percy had never owned a ball or a glove or a bat, had never played catch with his dad, had never dreamed of beating the Yankee. In fact he'd probably never dreamed of leaving the cotton patch. That thought was almost overwhelming.

Sure it will. That's part of it, Abby. It's a cutthroat business where the weak are eaten and the strong get rich. It's a marathon. He who endures wins the gold. And dies at the finish line.

Hearing the truth is like grabbing smoke in our family

Don't ever get involved in politics, Theo. It's a dirty game.

Hearing the truth is like grabbing smoke in our family," Joel said.

Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.

her lies, something came over him, maybe the Holy Spirit, and he just couldn't

Once a heavy smoker—a good portion of the smoke-stained windows and ceilings could be blamed on her—she had been battling lung cancer for the past three years but had yet to miss a full week of work.

Thirty-one real people were waiting for me to get food stamps, locate housing, file divorces, defend criminal charges, obtain disputed wages, stop evictions, help with their addictions, and in some way snap my fingers and find justice.

Her husband, a devout servant and follower of Christ, was reading his Bible and preparing his sermon, at church, when he was murdered. Why couldn't God protect him, of all people? Upon deeper reflection, this often led to the more troubling question, one she never asked aloud: Is there really a God? The mere consideration of this as a passing thought frightened her, but she could not deny its existence.

Some writers are seasoned raconteurs with an endless supply of stories and quips and one-liners. Others are reclusive and introverted souls who labor in their solitary worlds and struggle to mix and mingle.

I needed peace, because I'd been at war my entire life. (...) I needed strength, because deep inside I knew how weak I was. I needed happiness, because I'd been miserable for so long

Street life was a struggle to survive today, with no time to reminisce and nothing in the past to get nostalgic over. There was no future so that point of reference was likewise unknown.

Strippers. Get them a job, then an apartment, buy some clothes, feed them nice dinners, and then they get culture and start making demands. They were an expensive habit, but one he could not break.

Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.' That's the perfect description of Tessa's family.

I cursed Mister for derailing my life. I cursed Mordecai for making me feel guilty. And Ontario for breaking my heart.

They decided that since they were dead men anyway, they would take their chances in the jungle, where they spent the first three days and nights lost in the bush. When they were too weak to walk and were discussing ways to commit suicide, they killed an injured Japanese soldier they caught napping in the woods.

she would miss something important. The letters drained her. The lyrics put her to sleep. The novels produced migraines. The poetry could not be penetrated. She wrote back twice a week, without fail, because if she neglected her youngest by even a day or so, she could expect a torrent of abuse, a four-pager or maybe a five-pager with