Repairing A Broken Heart Quotes

A broken heart is such a shabby thing, like poverty and failure and the incurable diseases which are also deforming. I hate it and am ashamed of it, and I must somehow repair this heart and put it back into its normal condition, as a tough somewhat scarred but operating organ.

..then you must say to her, ‘Madame, I observe that your heart is broken. Allow me to repair it for you...

I felt I was drawing close to that age, that place in life, where you realize one day what you'd told yourself was a Zen detachment turns out to be naked fear. You'd had one serious love relationship in your life and it had ended in tragedy, and the tragedy had broken something inside you. But instead of trying to repair the broken place, or at least really stop and look at it, you skated and joked. You had friends, you were a decent citizen. You hurt no one. And your life was somehow just about half of what it could be.

So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one, in the end -- not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman's second glance, a child's apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words 'I have something to tell you,' a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother's papery ancient hand in a thicket of your hair, the memory of your father's voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.

There was no drug strong enough to repair a broken heart.

Lev could not be fixed. And I didn’t want to repair the broken part of him. He was perfectly imperfect, and I was his in heart and soul.

I had crossed the yard to him slowly, watching him draw closer, baffled by the way my heart was skittering around my chest. Then he'd picked me up and spun me in a circle, and I'd clung to him, breathing in his sweet, familiar smell, shocked by how much I'd missed him. Dimly, I'd been aware that I still had a shard of the blue cup in my hand, that it was digging into my palm, but I didn't want to let go. When he finally set me down and ambled off to the kitchen to find his lunch, I stood there, my palm dripping blood, my head still spinning, knowing that everything had changed. Ana Kuya had scoled me for getting blood on the clean kitchen floor. She'd bandaged my hand and told me it would heal. But I knew it would just go on hurting. In the creaking silence of the cell, Mal kissed the scar on my palm, the wound made so long ago by the edge of that broken cup, a fragile thing I'd thought beyond repair.

Our bodies are ecosystems, and they shed and replace and repair until we die. And when we die, our bodies feed the hungry earth, our cells becoming part of other cells, and in the world of the living, where. we used to be, people kiss and hold hands and fall in love and fuck and laugh and cry and hurt others and nurse broken hearts and start wars and pull sleeping children out of car seats and shout at each other. If you could harness that energy – that constant, roving hunger – you could do wonders with it. You could push the earth inch by inch through the cosmos until it collided heart first with the sun.

Are we irretrievably broken? Never beyond repair, good heart.

My daughter squealed again and both Bubba and I winced. It’s not an attractive sound, that. It’s high-pitched and it enters your ear canals like hot glass. No matter how much I love my daughter, I will never love her squealing. Or maybe I will. Maybe I do. Driving down 93, I realized once and for all, that I love the things that chafe. The things that fill me with stress so total I can’t remember when a block of it didn’t rest on top of my heart. I love what, if broken, can’t be repaired. What, if lost can’t be replaced. I love my burdens.

Driving down 93, I realized once and for all, that I love the things that chafe. The things that fill me with stress so total I can’t remember when a block of it didn’t rest on top of my heart. I love what, if broken, can’t be repaired. What, if lost can’t be replaced. I love my burdens.

A delicate scent hung in the air as we strolled down the long boulevard toward the Opera House holding hands. Paris had come to life in a very special way, the lights of the Eiffel Tower a gentle reminder that nothing mattered once that starry blanket covered the great city, except love. Love was the reason Paris existed. For those lonely in their soul, their heart a barren wasteland starving for nourishment, she offered hope. For those like Caroline and I, lucky enough to have found each other and begin the healing process to repair our brokenness, Paris was a bastion to love's transforming power. A year ago I could not have pictured myself holding hands with someone as nice as Caroline, as lovely and unpretentious. She was pretty, but her soul made her beautiful. I loved everything about her, including her damage.

Broken code and broken heart are hard to repair.....

You can't sweep something broken into a bag and call it whole. It takes repair.

Love is about being broken beyond repair in the eyes of the world and finding someone who thinks you're just fine, that you are special and precious because you understand how it feels to be broken and you have a real human heart.

A broken heart doesn't need repaired. Because maybe one of your pieces fits perfectly with someone else's heart.

When you care deeply about someone or something, repairs are worth your investment of time, energy, effort, heart, and resources. Whether it is to repair a broken trust or a damaged relationship, take the initiative to make it right and make it better.

I loved you, I love you now, but I’ll be able to go on. I know that I can. You taught me that. Not being with you is far from my dream, but like our hearts, dreams can be broken and repaired again. It’s hard for me not to wonder if I scared you away with all these letters. I hope not. I hope it just made you see how beautiful and amazing you are. I guess I’m realizing now that I just want you to be happy and safe. That’s the most I can hope for now. I brought some of your boxes here but I didn’t open

Some say it's wrong to profit from the misfortune of others. I ask my students whether they'd support a law against doing so. But I caution them with some examples. An orthopedist profits from your misfortune of having broken your leg skiing. When there's news of a pending ice storm, I doubt whether it saddens the hearts of those in the collision repair business. I also tell my students that I profit from their misfortune—their ignorance of economic theory.

Words and Heart must be handled with care, because words once spoken and heart once broken are difficult to repair.

There always seemed to be a better way, except when it came to people. Once broken, people couldn't be repaired.

No, my precious Shortbread. That once broken, a heart can never mend. Function—yes. But you cannot repair something that is already in pieces.

My heart shudders violently, reminding me that it’s broken beyond repair. As if I could fucking forget.

Repairing what’s broken is a distinctly biblical concept, which is why as people of faith we should be leading the way into redemption, restoration, and reconciliation.

The point is that things can be repaired. That they are even more beautiful for having been repaired.

I wasn't prepared to feel anything again. I wasn't supposed to. When hearts are broken so utterly beyond repair, they're not supposed to beat again, right?

You are a word doctor. Repair the breaches of the soul. Rebuild the broken walls of the personality. Comfort those who have lost their hearts. Speak words that contain life, power, and health. Use your tongue as a weapon to destroy the mental strongholds in people’s lives.

and maybe one day, i won't be so broken anymore and one day, i will find the lost pieces of me again and then there will be another sunrise where i would glue them back and the next day, i will stand in front of the mirror, smiling at my repaired soul again and that will be the day when my night will end and i will bid the moon a soft goodbye with a promise to visit sometime again to the stars shining in that dark sky

I trust God to carry me no matter the outcome. I trust that he has led us here and that he will either fulfill my hopes or repair my broken heart.

I don’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that my heart is so thoroughly broken I fear I am beyond repair.

For a broken heart to be fixed, the person has to want to repair it.

I’d feel paradoxically full in the stomach, empty in my heart, tired, alone, content, whole, hollow, broken and repaired, cheated and lucky, useless and essential to the cosmic pattern.

I tell the squad a joke: "Stop me if you're heard this. There was a Marine of nuts and bolts, half robot--weird but true--whose every move was cut from pain as though from stone. His stoney little hide had been crushed and broken. But he just laughed and said, 'I've been crushed and broken before.' And sure enough, he had the heart of a bear. His heart functioned for weeks after it had been diagnosed by doctors. His heart weighed half a pound. His heart pumped seven hundred thousand gallons of warm blood through one hundred thousand miles of veins, working hard--hard enough in twelve hours to lift one sixty-five ton boxcar one foot off the deck. He said. The world would not waste the heart of a bear, he said. On his clean blue pajamas many medals hung. He was a walking word of history, in the shop for a few repairs. He took it on the chin and was good. One night in Japan his life came out of his body--black--like a question mark. If you can keep your head while others are losing theirs perhaps you have misjudged the situation. Stop me if you've heard this...

Padre nuestro, bless these children with your love and grace. Protect them from any further harm, God, and provide them with comfort in their time of unspeakable grief. May Jesus walk the road with them and repair their broken hearts. May Mother Mary sweep all dangers from their road ahead and lead them safely where they’re going. Padre nuestro, these two faithful servants have shouldered more than their share of life’s burdens already. Please, God, may you see fit to relieve them

God knows our crooked places that need to be made straight, the wounds in our hearts that fester for years unhealed, the broken pieces of our lives that seem beyond repair. And He who is the author of miracles has infinite desire as well as power to heal them all.

I told Tamsin that I didn’t believe in happily ever after anymore. I believed my heart was broken beyond repair and that anyone this broken could not possibly be happy and, therefore, never have a happy ending. I believed Trik was gone, that he had chosen a life of darkness over me. Turns out I was wrong, not about the happy part, but about Trik. He had chosen me. He saved me, or what was left of me. But I have not chosen him. I can’t. He is not what I crave and what I crave I cannot have. So I can’t choose Trik, and all that is left for me to choose is existence or death. Flip the coin, tails stares back at me. Death it is.

And so it goes that, even as children, we understand something we cannot articulate: The diagnosis never changes. We will always be hungry, will always want. Our bodies and minds will always crave something, even if we don't recognize it. And in the same way the dandelion's destruction tells us about ourselves, so does our own destruction: our bodies are ecosystems, and they shed and replace and repair until we die. And when we die, our bodies feed the hungry earth, our cells becoming part of other cells, and in the world of the living, where we used to be, people kiss and hold hands and fall in love and fuck and laugh and cry and hurt others and nurse broken hearts and start wars and pull sleeping children out of car seats and shout at each other. If you could harness that energy- that constant, roving hunger- you could do wonders with it. You could push the earth inch by inch through the cosmos until it collided heart-first with the sun.

The most beautiful among us all seem to be slightly broken, women especially. The ones worth knowing are beyond repair. She’ll always be slightly off centered. A clock, never set perfectly, but you knew could still sing beautifully. And fools we are for attempting to fix her. Just read her, learn her, love her. Don’t try to make sense of her past, or dare predict her future. Who she was, is not who she is, and is certainly not who she would be. You’re not meant to understand her entirely. Because she’s not sure who she is exactly. Let her sing her song. Watch her dance wildly to it. It’s her time. Repairing that would only break her heart. And I’d rather be ripped apart from her than rip a part from her.

Essentially, straightforward, honest, and clean is the only way to break up with someone and have you both leave with your dignity intact. {...} This takes a TON of vulnerability because this process is awkward as fuck and feels shitty to both parties involved, but I swear if you buck the fuck up and break up like a civilized person, in the long run, unless they're a psychopath or total dick, you'll keep your soul somewhat unscathed and their ego and heart not broken beyond repair.

our bodies are ecosystems, and they shed and replace and repair until we die. And when we die, our bodies feed the hungry earth, our cells becoming part of other cells, and in the world of the living, where we used to be, people kiss and hold hands and fall in love and fuck and laugh and cry and hurt others and nurse broken hearts and start wars and pull sleeping children out of car seats and shout at each other. If you could harness that energy—that constant, roving hunger—you could do wonders with it. You could push the earth inch by inch through the cosmos until it collided heart-first with the sun.

Have you ever witnessed the anger of the good shopkeeper, James Goodfellow, when his careless son has happened to break a pane of glass? If you have been present at such a scene, you will most assuredly bear witness to the fact that every one of the spectators, were there even thirty of them, by common consent apparently, offered the unfortunate owner this invariable consolation – "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Everybody must live, and what would become of the glaziers if panes of glass were never broken?" Now, this form of condolence contains an entire theory, which it will be well to show up in this simple case, seeing that it is precisely the same as that which, unhappily, regulates the greater part of our economical institutions. Suppose it cost six francs to repair the damage, and you say that the accident brings six francs to the glazier's trade – that it encourages that trade to the amount of six francs – I grant it; I have not a word to say against it; you reason justly. The glazier comes, performs his task, receives his six francs, rubs his hands, and, in his heart, blesses the careless child. All this is that which is seen. But if, on the other hand, you come to the conclusion, as is too often the case, that it is a good thing to break windows, that it causes money to circulate, and that the encouragement of industry in general will be the result of it, you will oblige me to call out, "Stop there! Your theory is confined to that which is seen; it takes no account of that which is not seen." It is not seen that as our shopkeeper has spent six francs upon one thing, he cannot spend them upon another. It is not seen that if he had not had a window to replace, he would, perhaps, have replaced his old shoes, or added another book to his library. In short, he would have employed his six francs in some way, which this accident has prevented.

Going against everything her heart was telling her to do, she took a step back again, creating the distance he clearly wanted. She had to stay resolute. It was less painful this way. Letting him go had to be less painful. And she had to do it while she still had the conviction. She was used to facing things alone and this was no different. She didn’t need him. She needed anything but him if she was going to get her life back on track. The last thing she needed was a broken heart. If any more threads that held it together were cut, she wasn’t sure it would ever repair again. And she knew Kane was more than capable of being the one to ruin her.

A Prayer for Humility Lord, we ask that the words of this book fall on the soil of our hearts. Come into our brokenness and our lives with your love that heals all. Consume our pride and replace it with humility and vulnerability. Allow us to make space for your correction and redemption. Allow us to bow down with humble hearts, hearts of repentance. Bind us together in true unity and restoration. May we hear your voice within the words of these pages. Give us collective eyes to see our role in repairing what has been broken. Allow these words to be a conduit for personal transformation that would lead to collective reproduction. —LATASHA MORRISON

We have trouble digesting a narrative that doesn’t fit our worldview. It’s actually easier for us to believe a false narrative that fits our outlook on the world than a true narrative that shakes and shatters our perspective. And that is true regardless of where we stand. However, a Christian worldview, marked by the biblical storyline, stands apart from ordinary, conventional storylines. It shows that in the grand scheme, we are all guilty. We are all villains, the bad guys. The true evil is sin showing its face through broken humanity, and it touches every one of us. The one true hero is Jesus and his power to restore broken hearts and repair the infrastructures corrupted by sin.

And in the same way the dandelion’s destruction tells us about ourselves, so does our own destruction: our bodies are ecosystems, and they shed and replace and repair until we die. And when we die, our bodies feed the hungry earth, our cells becoming part of other cells, and in the world of the living, where we used to be, people kiss and hold hands and fall in love and fuck and laugh and cry and hurt others and nurse broken hearts and start wars and pull sleeping children out of car seats and shout at each other. If you could harness that energy—that constant, roving hunger—you could do wonders with it. You could push the earth inch by inch through the cosmos until it collided heart-first with the sun.

if you're reading this, I'm probably gone by now. I used to reside in your heart, but I had to move out recently. between you and me, it became a little too expensive to live there. it cost me too much happiness, and it cost me so much peace, and these are things I never budgeted for when you asked me to move in. the warmth I felt in the air when I first move in slowly turned cold, and even though I attempted several times to repair the broken windows and fix the energy between us, sometimes situations should be left alone before common ground is found. we've waited and waited, staring at clocks and hoping time can replace everything we've lost, but the only thing I've found is that it's best for me to pack my belongings and go. sleeping in a cold heart every day and hoping that it will warm up is like playing a game of russian roulette with my happiness, and I'm not trying to take any chances. so I moved out and came back to myself, and I can safely say there's no place like home.

No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire—nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber—too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size—its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?” “Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.” “How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off—you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you—and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock.

On the other hand, comfort of a sort is providable. It consists in large part of copping to the inability to be comforting. As contradictory as this seems, I (and, I’m told, many other people) have found it immeasurably more helpful for someone to say, ‘I have no idea how you must feel,’ or ‘I can’t imagine your pain.’ Just saying this and making clear that you hear and acknowledge the pain, though you have no answers, goes light-years beyond any attempt to repair a griever’s spirits. The knowledge of a loving soul’s presence and willingness to be present and to hear and absorb one’s grief is a powerful resource for the griever. I’ve had more comfort from people saying, ‘I don’t know what to say,’ than from a hundred people telling me good reasons I shouldn’t feel as bad as I do. I know that whatever is said to a griever by concerned friends, whether ultimately helpful or distressing, comes from the very best of intentions. But if you happen on a broken heart, stand nearby, whisper, ‘I’m here,’ and never, ever, tell it you know how it feels.

People always feel sorry for you if you’re physically sick. It doesn’t matter if you have cancer or a cold. People always feel sorry for you and ask you if you’re okay. You need money? You got it! You want to meet a celebrity? Of course you can! You want to go to a convention, ComiCon, Disney World, anywhere in the world? You’re going to go there. That doesn’t happen when you’re mentally ill. If you’re mentally ill, people look at you differently. People roll their eyes when you talk about how sad you are. People won’t lift a finger to help you. “Get a job,” they’ll tell you. “Stop being so lazy. Be grateful you don’t have cancer. Get over it. It’s in the past. You have no reason to be sad.” And that isn’t how it works. But, of course, they wouldn’t know that. They’ve never been mentally ill, they don’t know how you can be so permanently damaged by your past that your present is painful and your future looks bleak. They don’t understand that most days getting out of bed is a chore. They don’t get that sometimes getting a job is out of the question because you’re just too damn afraid to even speak to anyone. That isn’t something you can just get over. But no one knows that because mental illnesses aren’t a real problem apparently. Apparently, the fact that over 800,000 million people die from suicide each year isn’t a real problem. Apparently, the fact that 15% of the adolescent population self-harms isn’t a real problem either. And, apparently, it isn’t a cause to worry that one in 200 American women suffer from an eating disorder. And, as I stand on the balcony, staring at the glittering city, thinking about the short time I spent in Paperthin Hearts, meeting all of the damaged children, I wonder how in the world people don’t understand what a mistake they’re making when they assume that having cancer is worse than being depressed or anxious or wanting to starve yourself to the point of death. How is that a mystery to anyone? Cancer patients are told they’re brave. They’re all made out to be martyrs. They’re given everything they need. Almost all of them. Mental health patients? They’re lucky if they get the right treatment they need before their broken, bleeding hearts, desperate only for love, destroy a part of them that can never be repaired.

It really is location, location, location. If you’re going to live with peace of heart and with hope and courage, you have to know your place in the work of God. There are two markers of that work that really do locate you, tell you what God is doing, and inform you as to how you should live right here, right now. As I have said before, you live between the “already” and the “not yet.” First, it is vital for you and me to always remember that we live in the “already” of complete forgiveness. Forgiveness is not a “hope it will be” thing. It’s an “accomplished and done” thing. You do not have to hope that you will be forgiven. You do not have to be concerned that the process of forgiveness will somehow fail. Why? Because your complete and final forgiveness was accomplished on the cross of Jesus Christ. The perfect sacrifice of the completely righteous Lamb fully satisfied the holy requirements of God and left you righteous and without penalty in his sight. So you never have to worry that you will be so bad that God will reject you. You never have to hide your sin. You never have to do things to win God’s favor. You never have to cower in shame. You never have to rationalize, excuse, defend, or shift the blame. You never have to pretend that you are better than you are. You never have to present arguments for your righteousness. You never have to fear being known or exposed. You never have to compare the size of your sin to the size of another’s. You never have to parade your righteousness so it can be seen by others. You never have to wonder if God’s going to get exhausted with how often you mess up. All of these are acts of gospel irrationality because you have been completely forgiven. On the other end, it is essential to understand the “not yet” of your final repair. Yes, you have been fully forgiven, but you have not yet been completely rebuilt into all that grace will make you. Sin still remains, the war for your heart still rages, the world around you is still broken, spiritual danger still lurks, and you have not yet been fully re-formed into the image of the Lord Jesus Christ. The cross of Jesus guarantees that all of these broken things will be fixed, but they are not fixed yet. So as I bask in the complete forgiveness that I have been given and enjoy freedom from the anxiety that I will not measure up, I cannot live unwisely. One danger (sin) still lives inside me and another (temptation) still lurks outside me, so I am still a person in daily and desperate need of grace. Forgiveness is complete. Final restoration is yet to come. Knowing you live in between the two is the key to a restful and wise Christian life. For further study and encouragement: 2 Peter 3:1

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

I know that your heart is broken and I know that no words will repair that. I know how hard that is and I know it will never be the same again. But I also know what kind of person you are and how you deal with life. My friend, love is not how many times the words "I love you" have been said and it is not the long night talks or the going outs. Those add to the value of love but those are not 'love'. A good friend can offer you those. I know, love isn't meant to be easy but knowing what to defend and what to stand for is what defines love and what defines a person you can depend on. No one should use or abuse a relationship in any way. Knowing a person will choose you over anything else. Knowing that you can sleep safe because you have someone who will fight the world to choose you. That is Love. So, dear friend, let him leave because you deserve someone who wants to stay and who is willing to fight for it.

How many times can your heart mend until it's broken beyond repair?

She was broken. And i know,her heart can be repaired again. not by the "roses" and "chocolates" But by the "truths" and "loyalty

Only those who are beyond repair, Are the ones who can fix the world. They're insane and insensible enough, To give up all to heal another's heart.

Life didn't come until Ezekiel spoke to the breath." "What does that mean?" Harper hesitated. She had the strangest sensation of breathlessness, like after a long hike into high altitude just before cresting a mountain. "Well, it's resurrection. From the ashes. From the dust. From the dead things. Your problem is, you're looking at the bones instead of breathing." Daddy sighed. "Maybe your dream was never about a shop at all. Maybe there's a second command, Harper Girl. Another place where you're supposed to breathe life." Harper looked down to the blouse in her lap. To the thread and the needle. She thought of Millie's buttons. And then hope---glorious and beautiful hope---filled the landscape of her heart as the sunrise scatters new light over the mountaintops. Of course! Why hadn't she seen it before? All this time, she had been focused on the store. But her gifting, her dream, was so much more than that. Her gifting was repairing the broken places. Mending forgotten tears and weak seams. Breathing life back into the fabrics that told stories, into the buttons that bind them.

So they must find a way to repair their broken hearts by relighting the fire that is now dull within them. They should live for that.

Model turned actress Lydia Swanson was seen at the premier of her new film yesterday on the arm of a former member of her security team, ex-SAS war hero Samuel Clifton.

All broken things. Augmented with hope of Gold. A new Kentsugi Heart. (Haiku)

As his eyes travelled back to the new guy’s face, he did a double take. There was lipstick smeared all over his mouth. Katie hadn’t been wearing any lipstick, had she?

Katie’s idea of car maintenance and safety was a joke, he could see the defeated look on her face and the tense hunch of her small shoulders, and a wave of annoyance stole over him. It was okay for him to lecture her, but he felt strangely protective when somebody else decided to do it.

If I ask you to do something for me will you do it?’ She frowned. ‘Well, I’d have to know what this mysterious “something” was, wouldn’t I? I mean, if it was just, “Pass me one of those Wagon Wheels,” you know the ones that you’ve got stashed in the door shelf here – I’m impressed by the way, I had you down as more of a spinach-protein shake kind of a guy – then okay. But if it’s something of a more morally dubious nature – say, “Make a snuff film graphically depicting the gruesome deaths of two enraged male hedgehogs allowed to tear each other apart in a territorial dispute over a Tangle Teaser liberally doused with female hedgehog pheromones,” or, “Vote UKIP in the upcoming by-election” – then no, I wouldn’t be on board.’ He stared at her for a moment, a heavy feeling settling in his chest as he realized just how much she meant to him, how far he would be willing to go to keep her from any form of pain.

Even now as I type this in a small coffee shop, a young woman sitting at the next table pines away for the acceptance of the young man with her. She giggles, asks questions, and subtly hints at what she hopes he’ll tell her. Her heart is longing for answers no man will ever be able to supply. The heart of a woman is not only deep and wondrous but tender and vulnerable. Life can be rough on a woman when her heart gets snagged, entangled, broken, and sometimes shattered in ways beyond repair. Maybe you’ve been there. I have.

Go lightly on this fragile earth We are all strangers on this shore Remember what your life is worth And what it was we came here for And hidden deep within our heart There's a light that shines on everything On the right and the wrong On the weak and the strong On the prayers and the songs that we sing Go lightly on this precious land We're part of everything we see A tear-drop on the ocean The wind that whispers in the trees The wind that cries in the holy rage At the deeds and the damage we have done For how little we care for the life that is there Go lightly native son Go lightly on this sacred earth Go lightly on your way You are among the ones who took a second birth And we are blessed More than words can ever say And maybe sometimes your heart is broken But it's nothing that love cannot repair So with the gifts that you bring remember one thing It's the love for yourself that you share

When I was a small child, my mother told me every heart is pure and good, and no heart can ever be broken beyond repair. I didn’t understand, yet I never forgot her words.

If I tell you I want to have sex I expect you to treat my body as a temple, if I tell you I want to make love you need to realise you are now responsible for my heart; bad sex can be forgotten, but a broken heart cannot so easily be repaired.

Sometimes it's easier to create something new instead of repairing what’s broken. In some cases, replacing what’s damaged may seem like an easy way out. I believe nothing is easy when it comes to human hearts.

Nothing can fix a broken heart except love. Love always repairs those fractures we get in our heart.

2. A heart broken by a girl can be repaired by another girl only.

Mercy does not allow those who wrong us to get away with injustice. Mercy repairs what is broken, restores hope, and molds us into holy souls who emulate more closely the heart of Jesus Christ. Mercy is everything.

The lingering kisses and almost dates. The fighting fueled by too much emotion [on my end], and the lack thereof [on Jace’s]. The blissful months that repaired my brokenness. The pathetic months that shattered it. Because whatever fire we had – It always turned to ash. And I realized since the day I met Jace, we found our way into each other’s bodies, but not each other’s hearts. For a while, it melted the ice that lodged there, but it was never enough to keep me warm. And it never would be. No matter how much I shivered and begged – Some things were just doomed from the start.

...and then you discover that you can break yourself in a way that can't be fixed...

He pierced through her armored heart and never patched the hole. Why was life always like that? The ones who do the most damage never think to repair it. They just leave you broken for the next person who has to deal with those twisted scars.

Maybe Savannah’s heart and mine had been broken by the loss of our siblings. But when we began to repair them, maybe we melded them back together to create our two hearts as one. We were stronger that way. Beating in unison. And I was sure they were more beautiful than they had ever been on their own.

What will happen to that vast body of Christians who were told Christianity is a matter of personal wellness, a competitor in the market for Self-therapy, when these shaky foundations no longer hold? Joel Olsteen says heaven has a warehouse full of blessings with my name on them. The only reason I don't have them is because I don't believe hard enough. What will happen when I finally determine I'm not cut out for this Christianity thing because my faith just doesn't pass muster? If Ken Ham is to be believed, it's already too late. The next generation is "already gone" (see supra, page 114). These are the Millennials who have actuated in their twenties what was in their hearts when they were twelve, that is, Christianity was something best grown out of and left behind. They've made their choice, answered the questions. And of those who remain, one wonders what it portends that 44% of younger evangelicals support gay marriage. It shouldn't be too much of a stretch to observe this position has more to do with cultural trends than with serious Scriptural contemplation, or contemplation on any serious theological thought, but try telling them that. Not only would that require transcending the latest slogans, but it would require considering an authority above the dictates of one's Self, and that is heresy in the religion of Gnosticism. But nature has a way of being what it is despite people's attempts to deny or reject it, to say nothing of nature's God. Nature, for example, will have the final vote on the gay marriage issue. No matter how hard two men try, they will never ever make a baby. Nature won't allow that. And eventually people will begin asking what the point of marriage was in the first place. Oh yeah, because two certain types of people – biology calls them male and female – make babies. Or again, human nature will have the final vote on the progressive experiment in collectivist action, say, in health care, and if history is a guide, that vote won't end well for progressives. We truly are individuals, not the Borg. Finally, the law of economic gravity will soon kick in on our national debt as well, reminding us that what can't go on forever won't. Then the fun begins. History teaches that days of leisurely indulgence, the sort which has always begotten Gnosticism, are numbered. It's one thing to shake your fist at the world when living a comfortable existence. Boutique rebellion against Yaltabaoth's systems of control is always fun. It's another thing to be hungry and need a damn bite to eat, or to be cold, because "the system" was finally broken beyond repair. Right around then we hear a galloping sound in the distance. That's the four horsemen coming to do what they are appointed to do. Marantha. S. D. G.

Danika Fendyr was the smart one. She stole the Horn from the temple, and you knew her well enough to finally realize what she did with it.” “Why would Danika have ever wanted the Horn?” Bryce asked innocently. “It’s broken.” “It was cleaved. And I’m guessing you already learned what could repair it at last.” Her heart thundered as Micah growled, “Synth.” She got to her feet, her knees shaking only slightly. “Governor or not, this is private property. If you want to burn me at the stake with all these books, you’ll need a warrant.

Broken Heart can't be repairs ,but can get healed..

I want to create a world where any person can be repaired, no matter how broken their body or mind or heart.

In military families, the trained protector was forever protecting someone else. On the home front, crisis control rested squarely on the shoulders of the spouses, everything from broken bones to broken hearts, leaking water heaters to car repair.

She was faulty, broken, defective. Yes, she'd been here before. The dull, numbing stillness that followed another shock, another disappointment, another sadness. She could feel herself settling into autopilot, letting her mind take over the logistics while her heart scrambled to repair itself. Except this time, she didn't think she would come back from it.

Words and hearts should be handled with care. "For words when spoken and hearts when broken are the hardest to repair.

Broken glass can be mended. Even steel can be repaired and even welded. but Trust, once broken...

Furthermore, my soul was sick, and heart shattered, seemingly beyond repair. I needed consolation. I sought redemption in the wind. I knew that on Bessie I could navigate around the soul sickness, find solace in the journey, and steer in the opposite direction of all the hefty feelings bearing down on me.

Dr. Campbell handed us off to the orthopedic surgeon, who went over the next steps to deal with Brandon’s broken bones. Another surgeon told us about the repairs to the laceration to his liver. Then a plastic surgeon talked to us about the skin grafts he would need to cover the extensive road rash on his left arm. By the time the doctors were done with us, Sloan was wiped. I put her back in her chair and called Josh. The phone was still ringing when I heard it behind me. I spun and there he was. The second I saw him, my emotional disconnect from the situation clicked off. My coping mechanism snapped away from me like a rubber band shot across a room, and the weight of what happened hit me. Sloan’s grief, Brandon’s condition—Josh’s trauma. I dove into his arms, instantly withered. I’d never trusted anyone else to be the one in control, and my manic mind gave it to him immediately and without reservation and retreated back into itself. He clutched me, and I held him tighter than I’d ever held anyone in my life. I wasn’t sure if I was comforting him, or if I was letting him comfort me. All I knew was something subconscious in me told me I didn’t have to hold the world up anymore now that he was here. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered, breathing him in as my body turned back on from being in suspended animation. The sound to the movie around me turned all the way up. My heart began to pound, I gasped into his neck, and tears instantly flooded my eyes. He put his forehead to mine. He looked like shit. He’d looked bad this morning at the station—I knew he hadn’t slept. But now his eyes were red like he’d been crying. “Any updates?” His voice was raspy. I couldn’t even comprehend how hard it must have been for him to see what he saw and stay at work, going on calls. I wanted to cover him like a blanket. I wanted to cover them both, Josh and Sloan, and shield them from this. I put a hand to his cheek, and he turned into it and closed his eyes. “He just got out of surgery,” I said. Then I told him everything, my hands on his chest like they anchored me. He stood with his arms around my waist, nodding and looking at me like he was worried I was the one who wasn’t okay. It didn’t escape me that we were holding each other and I didn’t care what it meant or what wrong signals it might send to him at the moment. I just knew that I needed to touch him. I needed this momentary surrender. For both of us.

In fact, Leona's choice of romantic partner would be one decision that would have been questioned profusely because her relationship with Darin, whichever way Leona looked at it, was a complete and utter mess held delicately together by the unreciprocated ribbons of love that exuded from Leona's rejected, unwanted, tolerated broken heart.

My Broken Pieces A few weeks back, a longtime friend asked if I would meet her for lunch to discuss a new job offer. We sat in the restaurant for forty-five minutes discussing her new job opportunity when her face grew solemn. She sighed, staring down into her plate. I asked, “is everything all right,” knowing she did not ask me to meet to discuss a job offer. She said, “everything is fine, but I cannot get your story or quote about the broken pieces out of my mind.” She took a deep breath raised her head and, in half whisper, said, “it really described the broken pieces in my marriage? I answered, “when promises, borders and commitment are broken, and especially betrayal, the relationship may be repaired but never return to what it once was or could have been.” Before she left, she thanked me for giving her a copy. I refer to the story, as “The Broken Vase.

Each man carries with him imperfection and regret and day by day he strives to make right the wrongs he has committed, to repair what he has broken. Let your heart lead you, do not be afraid, for there will be much to regret if reason and sense and fear are your only markers.

A heart can be broken numerous times and completely repaired by one soul.

But God doesn't want us to stay broken in any area of our lives. He's not an insurance adjuster holding out until the last minute before he's willing to repair the damage. He wants us to be whole. He wants to heal our hearts. He wants to restore what has been damaged.

Do personal inventory and inspection. Break out of lethargy and take time to fix, mend, and repair before it breaks you.

In that summer of broken hearts and vented spleens, this old couple began their journey towards what should perhaps be our common destination: holding the balance between our love and anger. For when life overtakes love, isn't anger inevitable? It is easy to feel betrayed and even easier to upset the balance beyond repair.