Quotes About Healing

Be careful. You're making hurting a habit. Spreading it around won't lessen your pain, you know. Just the opposite.

What's the use of healing, if the life that's saved is callow and selfish and ruled by fear? There's a difference between being in sanctuary and being in hiding.

There is a balm in Gilead," she read from the back, "to make the wounded whole—" "There's power enough in Heaven / To cure a sin-sick soul.

You're lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

She was stuffing her innards back. Sewing herself up, putting her skin, her make-up, her party frock back on.

There was nothing like the pain of the present to cure the pain of the past.

Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out.

And Beauvoir knew then the man was a saint. He's been touched by any number of medical men and women. All healers, all well intentioned, some kind, some rough. All made it clear they wanted him to live, but none had made him feel that his life was precious, was worth saving, was worth something.

when people died, they didn't go away. They were very much alive in the minds, in the hearts, in the vivid memories of those left behind. And they were not always easy to live with. Some ghosts had demands.

After all, it's how the light gets in.

Irene Finney filled the void with a child not loved then lost, but first lost, then loved.

Things were pretty dire when Ruth was the healing agent.

She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God. It was such a relief. She looked

You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?" Myrna

The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn't totally foreign to him. He knew it because he'd seen his own burned terrain, he'd walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark. And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case. He hoped so.

Maybe every now and then he simply wept. Not in pain or sadness. The tears were just overwhelming memories, rendered into water, seeping out.

holding on to resentments only binds you to the person you hate.

This village has known loss, people killed before their time, accidents, war, disease. Three Pines isn't immune to any of that. But you seem to accept it as part of life and not hang on to the bitterness.

though her legs had given way. Loss was like that, Gamache knew. You didn't just lose a loved one. You lost your heart, your memories, your laughter, your brain and it even took your bones. Eventually it all came back,

Who hurt you once / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip? It

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward.

Our secrets make us sick because they separate us from other people. Keep us alone. Turn us into fearful, angry, bitter people. Turn us against others, and finally against ourselves. A murder almost always began with a secret. Murder was a secret spread over time. Gamache

Things are strongest where they're broken.

They'd crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn't. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.