Flashlight Inspirational Quotes

God has the flashlight, let Him LIGHT the way!

You’ve lived and learned that timing is everything. Time is precious. Your birthright is happiness, love, peace, and joy. As you travel the road of life, you now know when to pay attention. You now know your worth, and as you walk down the path without fear, you are learning more and more about yourself than you have ever known. No matter how old you are—you are learning the fundamentals of life forces that will help guide you along the way. You are learning that there’s no need for a flashlight because the love you have for yourself is shining so brightly that everyone notices as you walk past them.

Four times during the first six days they were assembled and briefed and then sent back. Once, they took off and were flying in formation when the control tower summoned them down. The more it rained, the worse they suffered. The worse they suffered, the more they prayed that it would continue raining. All through the night, men looked at the sky and were saddened by the stars. All through the day, they looked at the bomb line on the big, wobbling easel map of Italy that blew over in the wind and was dragged in under the awning of the intelligence tent every time the rain began. The bomb line was a scarlet band of narrow satin ribbon that delineated the forward most position of the Allied ground forces in every sector of the Italian mainland. For hours they stared relentlessly at the scarlet ribbon on the map and hated it because it would not move up high enough to encompass the city. When night fell, they congregated in the darkness with flashlights, continuing their macabre vigil at the bomb line in brooding entreaty as though hoping to move the ribbon up by the collective weight of their sullen prayers. "I really can't believe it," Clevinger exclaimed to Yossarian in a voice rising and falling in protest and wonder. "It's a complete reversion to primitive superstition. They're confusing cause and effect. It makes as much sense as knocking on wood or crossing your fingers. They really believe that we wouldn't have to fly that mission tomorrow if someone would only tiptoe up to the map in the middle of the night and move the bomb line over Bologna. Can you imagine? You and I must be the only rational ones left." In the middle of the night Yossarian knocked on wood, crossed his fingers, and tiptoed out of his tent to move the bomb line up over Bologna.

Awareness is a flashlight that gives us a choice.

The Qur’an is a divine map, a flashlight in the dark night, a compass that leads us back to the home we left so long ago.

I am not even safe in my pink bedroom anymore! Plus, I know that my teddy cannot help me out either, yet I hold on to it, for he knows all my secrets. I know she has put her dirty little long fingers in my mouth, and I have sucked on it not knowing what it was, and she has gotten on top of me too…! I just know it. Yet, I always feel so drowsy, when I hear them calling for me, like- I have been drugged up… I wonder if I have been? Yet- how…? It is like she has stood over my bed, and said- ‘Boo!’ When I was asleep, she would flashlight like it was beaming in my eyes with a flashlight, and she said… ‘It’s me- my love! I am going to sleep with you tonight!’ What choice do I have? It is either do- it, or face their wrath at school, yet I was so looped… I did not know if I was dreaming or not.

I think that we ought to be listening to our children a lot more often. Our children are living in the "here and now" and they know what to do about it. We can teach our children about where we have come from, but they can teach us about where we are all at, right now. Parents tend to come at their children with an arrogance merely due to the fact that they've been alive longer, but this is exactly where the disconnect takes place, this is exactly how you are going to not be able to connect with your children at the heart level. Being alive longer doesn't make you better at living. Read that again. I have many times turned to my son for guidance on LIVING in the here and now, and have become a vastly better person for it, as a result. We are not the only leaders here; we may be carrying a torch but our kids are carrying flashlights, and sometimes, flashlights are going to work so much better.

I'll never stop acknowledging the pain of others, because empathy is the flashlight leading us toward wholeness and healing. If we ignore those in our world and our neighborhoods who are in pain, we will ignore our own healing. We suffocate our own hope, because we are connected to each other. Waging peace is believing that the best for another person is the best for myself, my country, and my world.

Hate Not The Hater (The Sonnet) In most cases what seems, Like hate is actually envy. Even the haters don't know that, Haters just hate what they can't be. Others' achievement intimidates the puny, Whereas it inspires those wanting to grow. Pay no attention to the mockery of morons, Ridicule can't diminish a braveheart's glow. When an empty flashlight mocks the sun, Does it affect the sun's glory one bit! Hate not the haters in return my friend, It's just their way of acting needy, that's it. One lover is braver than a hundred haters. One heart alive and aloud is the bias breaker.

Every now and then, you’ll have someone come into your life unexpectedly. In a good way. Kind of like when you’re in the dark and someone hands you a flashlight.

You know, I’ve heard my parents, throughout most of time, begging and crying about freedom. It’s pathetic. Asking for freedom is admitting that you don’t have any. And if you complain about not having it, then you’re shouting, ‘I will never be free,’ to the world. Even if you’re tied up and thrown into a dark room, you’re still free.” He paused for a short while to consider what she had said, reclining somewhat and staring at her face, which looked as though it were lit by a flashlight below. “No, I don’t understand. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense, not about any freedom worth caring about. Freedom is more than a choice between drowning and immolation. More than some cogs turning behind my mind.” “That’s a very silly way to think about it,” Sielle said. Enveloped in shadows, she inspired a chill down his spine. As if she were, in that moment, the avatar of some cosmic Pythia. “Using words like ‘more free’ and ‘less free.’ The measurements of something are not that something. And you can’t even measure how free someone is because everyone is always equally free, at all times, in all situations. There will always be different and infinite and better or worse options to choose from. The choice between water or soda, between this memory to recall or that, between extinguishing a star or not. Each requires the same freedom, not more or less. And if I thought the way you did, I’d say all those choices make me unfree, since I am forced to choose.” “So I’m free just for existing?” he asked. “Yes, in a way. All castles are made out of the playground’s sand. The only real castles are the monarchs who built them. You are free for existing with me.” He stayed silent and stared again beyond her dimmed face, which was becoming slightly damp with sweat.

All those times back in my life when I had thought myself unhappy…how foolish I had been. Any man who experiences the worst looks back on all that was as better. So it was with me. “Call only that man happy who is dead.” The ancient Greeks once said that…but oh ye ones lost in the river of time…if only you knew, if only you knew. Man, no matter what his situation, can be happy, if only he realizes that his situation could be worse. But for me, there was no worse situation; I was like Croesus attached to the pyre, only there was no King to release me from being consumed by the flames. But here, right now, as I write this, I am happy, because I am at war. War is the refuge for those who have nothing better to do. The voice of my conscience, like an ancient Emathion head, was lost in the lust, devoured within the burning fire of my heart. I poured some Beefaronis over my foot. The dim light of the flashlight shone upon it. Then I waited. One came, quickly, running across the room. It leaped at my foot but my hand grabbed it before its teeth could clench down on my foot. The razorblade in my other hand came down hard upon its flesh. As I concentrated on murdering this poor rodent, I did not see the other rat scurrying across the room. The pain was deep. It did not just indulge in Beefaronis, but its teeth dug deeper. I screamed. I let the other rat go, throwing it across the room. I did not know if it was dead or not, but I did not care. I tried grabbing the other rat, but it had dug itself in. I kept screaming. I felt as if a pitchfork was repeatedly struck through my body while I hung chained to a wall. In a way, it almost felt good, because it was different from the deadening dullness that was normal.

Ali explained that Uncle Arash had been tasked with the strangest job in the Persian army. At night, after the human wave attacks and the mustard gas left countless dozens or hundreds of Iranians dying on the battlefield, it was Arash’s job to quietly and secretly put on a long black cloak, get atop a horse, and ride around the battlefield of fallen men with a flashlight under his face. He was meant to look like an angel. He was meant to inspire the dying men to die with dignity, conviction. To keep them from suicide. The delirious dying men would see Arash on his mount, in his illuminated hood, and believe they were being visited by Gabriel himself, or the twelfth imam returning for them. “Your uncle was an angel,” Ali told his son. “Literally. He helped a lot of people.