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Richelle E. Goodrich Quotes

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“Feeling discouraged does not mean you quit. Feeling sad does not mean joy is nonexistent. Feeling lonely does not mean you are alone. Feeling anxious does not mean you are in danger. Feeling loss does not mean you have nothing. Feeling angry does not mean you lose control. Feeling sorry does not mean you are at fault. What you feel is not necessarily what is.”

“I find only sadness and melancholy when I wade through the past, even when revisiting good memories. The past is gone; I can neither grasp it nor reshape it. Therefore, I must force my eyes to look toward the future where my mortal powers thrive.”

“People will insist on building high and wide barriers directly in your path, often with the intent of closing you in. If you treat these obstacles like fencing walls, they will prove mightily so. I choose to see them as grand towers meant to be scaled and conquered, providing an added victory as well as a great view of the journey ahead.”

“People are a lot like clay. They come in differing shades and consistencies and are easier to mold than one might think. Sometimes, they harden up a bit. Sometimes, God adds a little water to soften them. In every aspect—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually—a person can be successfully pressed and turned and smoothed by degrees. These subtle changes often go unnoticed until added upon over time. The sad thing isn’t how our claylike qualities give so easily to change. No. What is sad is the innumerable people who fail to realize they have the tools to mold their own clay.”

“Regardless of whether you admit it or not, if you have done wrong then you have done wrong. No excuse, no lie, no alibi, no rationalization or justification will change it. And no power under Heaven can conceal it from the all-seeing eyes of God.”

“Failure is respectable. Quitting is not. If you have worked hard and failed after giving every effort to make use of the opportunities available—so be it. At least you fought with all your might to make it otherwise. That is deserving of respect.”

“When you devalue ethics and morals by proclaiming that our attitude toward them should be casual or lenient, you can't be surprised by a rising generation who then behaves disrespectfully, treating life, people, and choices as if they possess little value or worth.  For whether or not that was the intention, society has taught them to believe thusly.”

“Accomplishments don’t just fall in your lap, they first demand a great deal from you—things like study and learning; intentional, arduous work; steadfast determination; ongoing attempts despite failures; personal sweat, blood, tears; and moments of exhaustion. Accomplishments don’t just fall in your lap, the demand actual growth.”

“Afraid of offending with an off word or the slightest insensitivity, I keep an unobtrusive and silent distance. Nevertheless, my pursed lips and offish stance are perceived as cold, managing to offend all.”

“The sweetest melody that plays on starry nights and wintry days, most soothing to my listening ears and calming to beleaguering fears, I call a symphony on air― the song of sweet, still silence rare.”

“I slept in the closet that night. Paranoia and a wild imagination had me picturing a drunken man tearing into my bedroom with an automatic weapon, screaming like a lunatic while blasting holes in my mattress until fluffs of padding flew everywhere and no sleeping child could possibly be left breathing. The closet just felt safer.”

“I would prefer that you not touch me," I said when her hand moved as if she intended to comb her long nails through my hair. "I’m afraid it can’t be helped," she replied. Her fingers passed close to my ear as they divided my straight lengths into sections and lifted the whole away from my face. There was a brazenness to her smile for a moment. She then released my hair, letting it fall onto my shoulders. I swallowed back a rise of anxiety, wondering if Thaddeus was right to fear her.”

“Poetry is the wailing of a broken heart―the etched sorrows of despairing souls.  These artful words are an exclamation in rare colors expressed noiselessly on parchment. Poetry is the unheard cry of a flower, wilting.  It is a humble, lucent tear shed with meaning.  It is the lovely portrayal of ugliness and the bitter edge of sweet. Poetry speaks to the spirit by piercing understanding. It interprets all senseless truths―beauty, love, emotion―into sensible scrawl. Poetry is vague affirmation and bewildering clarification. Like the most poignant of emotions, we understand the essence but cannot adequately do it verbal justice, crippled by inherently weak tongues. A spiritual soothsayer, poetry is the closest thing to expression of feelings unutterable.”

“Sunlight’s warmth on my face awoke me in the morning. I didn’t remember falling asleep or how I came to be in my own bed. But I did recall nightmares. Awful nightmares featuring Gwen. I turned my head to stare out an open window where the sun shone in full splendor, bleaching a clear sky enough to tell it was going to be a beautiful spring day. The air smelled of rain from overnight showers, mixed with a strong floral scent. A large lilac bush outside was responsible for the perfume. I breathed in the clean and fragrant air. My eyelids fluttered, blinking at a stunning reflection of daylight off the glass. The blue beyond gave an exquisite glow to my room. All of it was an invitation to bask in a new day—an invitation I declined because none of that mattered to me. The world might as well come to a dark and ugly end. I saw no reason for beauty or life to go on so long as Gwen was lost. Rolling over in bed, I felt the vice grips wrench at my heart again as I cried myself back to sleep. from Phantom's Veil”

“How does a tiny heart harbor so many clashing sentiments? One moment it is devoted. The next, purely disdaining. Weeping at tremendous heartache and then laughing, lighthearted, through the same tears. How can a heart rage so fierce as to boil blood while it turns to ice? How is this done? To love, hate, esteem, deride, rejoice, deplore, favor, resent— all of these and more swirling inside. This sensitive heart, so full and resilient, buoys up to the point of bursting and then deflates on a dime. It is a slave to whims and whispers. How is it that the human heart beats so wild and untamed?”

“Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes. I am stunned he can see it. Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days. My hand automatically moves to my chest. Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise. My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings. The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time. I cry because they are invisible to most. “Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart. His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm. He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona. “Oh. My elbow.” I let the air exhale from my lungs. Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor. It is jerked up again. “Can I do anything for you?” I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings. He tugs and I feel it. “No,” I reply to his question. But it is a lie. There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart. I wish they would mercifully let go.”

“My pain builds like storm clouds―massive, dark, and heavy with teardrops. Moisture falls torrential as if my world is a violent, eternal downpour; however, at long last the source runs dry and the bitter storm does cease. Blue skies dare to glow where the gloom has dissipated. I breathe it in, hoping to cleanse my inner soul. A laden heart tells me the truth: the clear sky is an illusion. Old pain rushes back like a flood, providing means for clouds to form and expand once again until it is too much to bear and the heaviness turns to rain. I cannot find refuge from this woe. It is my never-ending heartache.”

“Rain is a lullaby heard through a thick, isolating blanket of clouds. It is the tinkling harp of water droplets; a moist breath whistling through willow reeds; a pattering beat background to the mourner's melody. Rain is a soft song of compassion for the brokenhearted.”

“Peace is the natural result of righteous living. It comes when we are charitable. It blossoms as we spread joy to the world. It remains so long as we keep sacred covenants, commandments, and promises. And during those faithful, sometimes desperate moments, we cling to God, it acts as a sure anchor. Let me repeat the truth: genuine inner peace is the natural result of righteous living.”

“If God were to make a million lovely flowers in your image and plant them in a garden with you among them, I would still know you by your scent and by the feel of your petals and by the crazy way you lean towards my light whenever I draw near.”