Quotes About Struggle

He clutched his hands into a ball, praying, Why, God, why? I've been a faithful servant and served my church well. So why do You feel the need to test me? Actually, punish would be a more apt description.

She had on men's clothes—the hat, britches, shirt, boots, even a six-gun she wore on her hip. It had never bothered her before Rylan Carstens. She wiped her eyes. It was sure enough bothering her now.

certainly lived through more troubles than Tina, though Tina's own life couldn't be considered an easy one.

Maizy swallowed hard, a motion that almost strangled her in this blasted dress, and she nodded.

They looked at each other in dismay, and she knew just what he was thinking. He wanted her gone, but he needed her. She wanted to help, but she wanted to do it wearing britches. Neither of them had a hope of getting what they wanted.

make sense out of what he couldn't see. "Help me." Definitely a woman. "I'll get you out." "Don't leave me, please." Her voice broke. Her arms clamped around him as if she were hanging on to save her life. In her mind, she probably was. He wrapped his arms around her. In the dark he couldn't see anything. She seemed young. She'd come at him fast. But someone older, running

He pictured Maizy here, permanently. His. He liked the idea so much it shocked him. And then he pictured her at his side when they got thrown off the land. Rylan hated to see her go. But he knew if he talked her into staying permanently, he'd end up dragging her down with him when he failed. And that would hurt worse than broken ribs any day.

The petulant Cassie began to rear her head more fiercely. She wanted to hurt Red because she was hurting, and it didn't seem fair that she had to hurt alone. She wanted to scream at him and loathe all men through him, because he could never have a child, but he could make a child grow inside a woman and then leave her to die alone.

Rylan put one hand gently over her mouth. "Yes, all that and more. That's all because I was trying not to do this." He pulled her into his arms and kissed the living daylights out of her.

The devil is who torments good folks in the night. He whispers doubt in your ear. He stirs up anger. He picks at any little mistake you've made, or thinks you've made, and blows it up big. That's Satan, stirring and stirring trouble, like a pot he's trying to boil over, hoping he can spill sin through your soul and slop it all over the people around you.

I like the idea of having a family, but I'd've preferred a less troublesome one. One where I get shot or drowned less often.

Supposedly you drink to forget. The trouble is you don't forget, you remember—all the old insults and hatreds, real and imagined.

I guess you hate the people most who make the most justifiable demands. Because they go to the heart of our psyche. We know they are right, and therefore we

Moral power is always more dangerous to an oppressor than political force.

The fight for our land is at the core of our existence, as it has been for the last two hundred years. Once the land is gone, then we are gone too.

The men who had brought us whiskey and the smallpox had come with the cross in one hand and the gun in the other.

In the old days a man made a name for himself by being generous and wise, but now he has nothing to be generous with, no jobs, no money; and as far as our traditional wisdom is concerned, our men are being told by the white missionaries, teachers, and employers that it is merely savage superstition.

Between 1870 and 1880 all Sioux were driven into reservations, fenced in and forced to give up everything that had given meaning to their life—their horses, their hunting, their arms, everything.

I don't know whether I am a louse under the white man's skin. I hope I am.

You must kill the Indian in order to save the man! " That was part of trying to escape the hard life. The missions, going to church, dressing and behaving like a wasi?un—that for her was the key which would magically unlock the door leading to the good life, the white life with a white-painted cottage, and a carpet on the floor, a shiny car in the garage, and an industrious, necktie-wearing husband who was not a wino.

To be angry, poverty has to rub shoulders with wealth.

Rain falls on everyone, lightning strikes some. What cannot be changed is best forgotten. God made the world, and He saw that it was good. Not fair. Not happy. Not perfect. Good.

The sparrow still falls.

No matter how dark the tapestry God weaves for us, there's always a thread of grace.