Best 4246 quotes in «family quotes» category

Bertha knelt in front of me and took both my hands in hers and said, “Your mama loves you very much, Charlie. But sometimes, she just loses her way.” Loses her way? I’d be happy to draw her a map to show her the way back to being my mama again.

Bett didn't have any siblings because she said her father had preserved what was dead for too long to be able to create life. When Bet was younger and had begged for one, her father gave her a marmot he' stuffed for a man from Wyoming. "This is your brother Christopher," he'd said, placing the marmot on Bett's pillow one night. "He doesn't talk much, so you'll have to pick up the slack there.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate;—and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.

BEWARE DON'T RUN AFTER A MIRAGE We were happier when we were poor. We were happier when we did not have good food to eat or good clothes to wear. We were happier when we did not have a luxurious life. We were happier when we did not have our own house because we had a home, a family and understood, loved and lived for each other. I have failed to understand what we run after even when we have all.

Better was largely irrelevant when it came to mothering because the entire enterprise relied on the presumption that one day, sooner than you thought, your child would become an entirely self-reliant, independent person who made her own decisions. That child wouldn't necessarily remember the Halloween costumes you made from hand six years running. Or maybe she did, but she resented you for it because she'd wanted store-bought costumes just like all her friends. It didn't matter how great a mother you tried to be; eventually every child waled off in to the world alone.

Billy sipped the last of his coffee from the mug and shut down his laptop. 1,000 words wasn’t great but it also wasn’t as bad as no words at all. It hadn’t exactly been a great couple of years and the royalties from his first few books were only going to hold out so much longer. Even if he didn’t have anything else to worry about there was always Sara to consider. Sara with her big blue eyes so like her mother’s. He sat for a moment longer thinking about his daughter and all they’d been through since Wendy had passed. Then he picked up his mug with a long sigh and carried it to the kitchen to rinse it in the sink. When he came back into his little living room and the quiet of 1 AM he wasn’t surprised to find her there over to the side of the bookshelf hovering close to the floor just beyond the couch. Wendy. Her eyes were cold and intense in death, angry and spiteful in a way he’d never seen them when she was alive. What once had been beautiful was now a horror and a threat, one that he’d known far too well in the years since she’d died. He and Sara both. He stood where he was looking at her as she glared up at him. Part of her smaller vantage point was caused by kneeling next to the shelf but he knew from the many times she’d walked or run through a room that death had also reduced her, made her no higher than 4 or 4 and half feet when she’d been 6 in life. She was like a child trapped there on the cusp between youth and coming adulthood. Crushed and broken down into a husk, an entity with no more love for them than a snake. Familiar tears stung his eyes but he blinked them away letting his anger and frustration rise in place of his grief. “Fuck you! What right do you have to be here? Why won’t you let Sara and I be? We loved you! We still love you!” She doesn’t respond, she never does. It’s as if she used up all of her words before she died and now all that’s left is the pain and the anger of her death. The empty lack of true life in her eyes leaves him cold. He doesn’t say anything else to her. It’s all a waste and he knows it. She frightens him as much as she makes him angry. Spite lives in every corner of her body and he’s reached his limit on how long he can see this perversion, this nightmare of what once meant so much to him. He walks past the bookshelf and through the doorway there. He and Sara’s rooms are up above. With an effort he resists the urge to look back down the hall to see if she’s followed. He refuses to treat his wife like a boogeyman no matter how much she has come to fit that mold. He can feel her eyes burning into him from somewhere back at the edge of the living room. The sensation leaves a cold trail of fear up his back as he walks the last four feet to the stairs and then up. He can hear her feet rush across the floor behind him and the rustle of fabric as she darts up the stairs after him. His pulse and his feet speed up as she grows closer but he’s never as fast as she is. Soon she slips up the steps under his foot shoving him aside as she crawls on her hands and feet through his legs and up the last few stairs above. As she passes through his legs, her presence never more clear than when it’s shoving right against him, he smells the clean and medicinal smells of the operating room and the cloying stench of blood. For a moment he’s back in that room with her, listening to her grunt and keen as she works so hard at pushing Sara into the world and then he’s back looking up at her as she slowly considers the landing and where to go from there. His voice is a whisper, one that pleads. “Wendy?

Birth of a baby not only creates a bond between a baby and its parents but it also gives birth to a small world called “Family.

Blind minds are worst than blind eyes. That you have eyes does not mean that you have vision. Visionaries do not look they see whlie people look.

Bloodlines and last names didn't make a man extraordinary — the extraordinary existed in what we did in life, not in who we were.

Blood is Blood," she said, wary now. "There are many things that can take the love in one's heart and change it, but very few that can wipe it out altogether. Even if we might wish it.

Blood is thicker than water, I know, but it's unnatural stuff to drink so much of. (“The Wife Of Ted Wickham”)

Blood can help make family, but family often transcends blood.

Blood is thicker than water, but it can still be contaminated.

Blood is thicker than water," The young man said As he knifed his friend For a drooling old bitch And a house full of lies.

Blood makes you related, but it's loyalty that makes you family.

[bookcover:Lessons Learned|13578440] Another shot, and for some reason, I’m the only one who can’t move. Who can’t scream. Who can’t do anything but watch as the young man’s body slumps over his tray. Finally, I find my voice and scream his name.

Born as we are into a fallen race of sinners, we all tend to be selfish. We want things our way. We want what we want when we want it. Good parents do their best to train and discipline that selfishness out of us, and good teachers and pastors reinforce the lesson. But that self-centered tendency is deep-rooted, and it almost always requires hand-to-hand combat in the arena of life where the wants of self are pitted against the needs of others. Marriage and family provides this arena. Family is the perfect challenge to selfishness. Living in a family demands that I be sensitive to the needs of others. It demands my time. It intrudes on my wants. It tramples my ego. It virtually obliterates the concept of leisure. What a blessing! No, I'm not being facetious; these duties are truly blessings. Without such duties, we would become utterly self-centered, egotistical, and narcissistic- all of which are deadly because focus on self alienates us from God. Facing up to our duties beats down selfishness and forms godly character by challenging the supremacy of self. Let me be quick to say that marriage and family are not the only means of beating down the curse of selfishness. Many single people and childless couples are truly godly in character, compassionate, loving, and unselfish in all their doings. But I think marriage and family provide a rewarding means of dealing with selfishness because the glue that holds us to it when we'd rather bail out is love.

Breaking your family's heart was the price you paid for rescuing your own.

Breakfast was, on the whole, a leisurely and silent meal, for no member of the family was very talkative at that hour. By the end of the meal the influence of the coffee, toast, and eggs made itself felt, and we started to revive, to tell each other what we intended to do, why we intended to do it, and then argue earnestly as to whether each had made a wise decision.

Brightbill had been Roz's son from the moment she picked up his egg. She had saved him from certain death, and then he had saved her. He was the reason Roz had lived so well for so long. And if she wanted to continue living, if she wanted to be wild again, she needed to be with her family and her friends on her island. So, as Roz raced through the sky, she began computing a plan. She would get the repairs she needed. She would escape from her new life. She would find her way back home.

Breathing became a painful chore. Her lips turned down while her warm fingers caressed my cheek. That touch typically brought me to my knees, but now it cut me open. “Did you know that when you stop being stubborn and accept I may be right on something, your eyes widen a little and you tilt your head to the side?” she asked. I forced my head straight and narrowed my eyes. “I love you.” She flashed her glorious smile and then it became the saddest smile in the world. “You love your brothers more. I’m okay with that. In fact, it’s one of the things I love about you. You were right the other day. I do want to be part of a family. But I’d never forgive myself if I was the reason you didn’t get yours.” To my horror, tears pricked my eyes and my throat swelled shut. “No, you’re not pulling this sacrificial bullshit on me. I love you and you love me and we’re supposed to be together.” Echo pressed her body to mine and her fingers clung to my hair. Water glistened in her eyes. “I love you enough to never make you choose.”

Brotherly love builds family of faith.

Brotherly love is the bond of faith.

But – and it pains me to admit this – I don’t have the answers to everything. No one does. And turning to anyone – your mom, Andrew, Laura, me, whoever – to solve your problems in life will only result in disappointment.

Sonnet III: Black Coffin opened wide for all to See Black Coffin opened wide for all to See, The lifeless form of one I loved so dear. O, listen! mournful knells that soon shall be All night long tolling for the folk to hear. The lanterns overlight the old churchyard To watch the coffin lowered into the ground; Soon Frost shall grasp the turf already hard, Decay ye have to face without a sound. But years have pass'd herein do I relate My dear sweet mother's form within my mind. Still happiness fills all my heart and state, As I see my small family so kind. Love cannot be withheld by death or grave, It stays alive within the heart so brave.

…But don’t be late, Troy, or I’ll…” She hesitated and laughed, not entirely happily. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever need to worry about you again, will I? I don’t suppose I’ve ever needed to worry over a magician.” “There are always car accidents,” Tabitha declared cheerfully. “A car could come around the corner and… wallop! You’d need a terrific magician to get out of that one…” “Or eagles dropping tortoises,” Troy added, looking amused. “That happened in Ancient Greece, you know. An eagle dropped a tortoise on some dramatist and killed him.” “No eagles or tortoises here,” said Tabitha, “but a bit could fall off a plane.

But family connections are weird. Even if your relatives aren't good to you, they're still your blood. You can't lose that connection completely. And believe me, I've got a few relatives on my dad's side I'd love to lose.

But books were full of stories and stories were full of lies and lies hurt Jesus's feelings, so I didn't know what to think. I blamed my family. They were the ones who taught me so much about telling stories, and how not to do it, and then, in inspired moments of surprise, how to tell one so good you forgot what day it was, and I liked forgetting what day it was, so I made certain life choices that would allow me to get paid to forget what day it was and teach others to forget what day it was, which is, after all, what I think heaven probably is: the whole world, forgetting what day it is. You have to, I bet, with an endless supply of them.

But I can’t control my dreams. I can’t even remember them. For all I know I’m having the time of my life when I sleep, but I just can’t remember. So I’m forced to live in a life I have no control over. A life where I’m either numb to everything or terrified of every thought that crosses my mind. If this is all just a dream, then it sure is a disappointing one. But I still have time to try and control my dreams. I have time to try and make my dreams a reality in this waking life as well. The one bloody thing I have is time. I’ve got to remember that. I still have time. And despite everything, there is something reassuring about that.

But he didn't seem to need her to finish her sentence as he said, “I know. When you kiss me, it's like that for me, too.

But it is. It’s something you need, and that’s a long way from nothing. If you need it, Eddie, we need it. What we don’t need is a man who can’t let go of the useless baggage of his memories.

But being a brother or a sister (if you are lucky enough) is the role of a lifetime.

But everything would be okay, because we were going to fight it. We were going to fight it together. And we were going to win.

But even if every house looked identical-if all the furnishings were the same- it still wouldn't feel like yours. That's because home isn't where you are. It's who you're with.

But home, for us, is each other, no matter where we happen to be.

But in life, no one is spared, no one is let off the hook. Those buried sensations had to come out, be felt, addressed, and lived through. I wish I could say I let it all out that night. All of the tears, all of the screams, all of the bullshit. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It would take something much stronger to bring all that out of me. Still. By the time the sun rose the next morning, one thing had changed: I was no longer full of shit... I drove west; needing to escape the gravitational pull of both of my families and anyone who knew them. I needed to wallow in uncertainty, without the balancing effects of religion or school, or friends, or family to cling to. If I was ever going to figure out who I was, I needed to be a stranger again.

But, in the Trump aftermath, I've measured the costs And benefits of loving those who don't love Strangers. After all, I'm often the odd one— The strangest stranger—in any field or room. "He was weird" will be carved into my tomb.

But none of that really mattered. I had found my tribe. It felt like a family reunion for the family I'd never really known, a homecoming at the place where I was always meant to be but hadn't known how to find.

But now they were done running, lying, hiding, apologising, pretending. They were there because they wanted to be, because they had gotten there from years of fighting alone, and had stayed when they found they didn’t have to anymore.

But sometimes even people who care about each other need some time apart.

But the limp tent sputtering to life transfixes Thaddeus. It morphs and undulates like a lava flow. Forms rise in the fabric only to collapse as the gas reaches toward equilibrium. "It's just the wind," Cheryl says, but he ignores her. His home is turmoil. Right now poison pours over Cheryl's clothes and into Stevie's old room. Next will be the garage, or would that have been first? Ultimately, the order matters little to him. Gas will eventually coil around everything like a cat settling down for a nap: his law books in the attic, the photograph in the family room of Stevie leaning over the rail at Niagara Falls pretending to slip, the Hawaiian leis from a family vacation he can't quite remember, entire drawers full of odd knickknacks and fading memorabilia that attest to a life well lived, tangible proof of memories made even if the memories themselves rise more sluggishly and infrequently than they used to—all of it, ultimately, choking on gas. But how many of the termites?

But they were not friends. They were here to keep each other from spinning off alone into the dark matter of the universe.

But we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.

But unlike Mama, I would not go to heaven. My secrets padlocked the gates. I'd be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.

But we left camp after a while and we was driving in a real spooky place cause all the roads up near camp are dark and in the woods and we had to drive for a while to get to a highway cause there was no street lights or anything and nothing but woods and my dad asked me if I had a good time and I told him I did, but that’s really a lie and I felt like telling him what it was like at that mean old camp, but I thought he’d get mad and tell me I’m making it up and I thought I’d tell him some other time like Febuary and cause I didn’t think he’d believe me anyway, but so I changed my mind and then I thought I should tell him now cause he’ll wonder howcome I never told him sooner, so when he said that’s a nasty gash and when he said what did I do, stumble on the trail and hit a big rock or something? I told him no and I told him that lots of bad things happened to me at camp and that I never want to go there again cause I hate it and I almost cried. But he said I always had a bibid emigination cause he’s sure it wasn’t that bad! And I don’t know about those big words either, but what he said made me kind of mad cause grownups always think they know what happened to you better than you do yourself.

But when you choose your family, you get to choose how it is between you, too.

But you know how it is with fathers and sons. We can’t say what we want to say. We think a nod is a paragraph and a sentence is a book, and, in the end, all that’s important is left unspoken.

But why did my mother apportion the truth? Why did she tell me one version of history and tell another to my sister? I imagine my mother's pain and shame were so huge that she could only approach them piece by piece. I also think my mother was afraid to burden any of her children with the entire truth. My mother needed us to know. She needed to tell her story. But each of her children only got one piece--one chapter--of the book. I imagine my other siblings--and perhaps nieces, nephews, and cousins--were also given parts of my mother's most painful and truthful stories. And, in this way, I recognize the way in which I have protected myself through the careful apportioning of secrets, of personal details, of emotions. I know how I reveal certain parts of myself only to certain groups of people.

By definition, though, we are family. And in difficult times-- times like these-- despite our differences, we stand together as family.

...by her family circle. That was my phrase, one that could include me by some stretch of the imagination; 'circle' sounded too symmetrical, but it would have to do.