Honour Your Father And Mother Quotes

your father is an image of the lord of Creation, your mother an image of the earth. for him who fails to honour them, every work of piety is in vain. This is the first duty.’ (hindu. Janet, i. 9)

Eros mumbled something. "I'm sorry?" said Aphrodite. "Whatwouldjesusdo." "What would Jesus do?" said Aphrodite. "Let me tell you something. Jesus was a very good boy. He would do exactly what his mother told him to." "But-" "Jesus was supposed to be a god, right?" said Aphrodite. "Ergo, he did revenge. All gods do revenge." "Not exactly. He said you should turn the other-" "What else does your Jesus say?" Aphrodite interrupted. "I thought you didn't care." "Let me see," said Aphrodite. "I remember. 'Honour thy father and mother'." "One, that wasn't Jesus. And two, it's hard to honour your father when there are so many candidates for who he might be." "That's not very nice," said Aphrodite. "You know who your father is. It's your cousin Ares." [...] "I wish the Virgin Mary was my mother," grumbled Eros eventually.

Greet your brother with warmth And sincerity Protect your sister and honour your mother For she bore you in pain And made you who you are KhoiSan Book of Wisdom

In that moment, I felt truly sorry for you, Odysseus. But when the bard sang this next part, it was all I could do not to have him thrown over Ithaca’s rocky outcrops and left to drown in the darkening sea. First you asked your mother how she had died. Then you asked after the health of your father. Then your son. Then your honour. Then your throne. And then, when you had asked about everything else except the dog, you remembered to ask after your wife.

The Priceless Job of Motherhood God of Heaven I am here on Earth To follow a Divine mandate Of being a loving Mother I know I have no strength To do this on my own I pray for your wisdom To perform this task Without a fright As I raise these children Please help me remember I was never hired for this role But highly favoured To find myself in it Hence, I acknowledge this privilege Of being a parent to them Lord, I lift my hands And bow to Your majestic Name I say at top of my voice Thank you, Father For the priceless job of Motherhood!

You must honour and obey and conciliate your country when angry, more than a father; you must either persuade her, or do whatever she commands; you must bear in quiet anything she bids you bear, be it stripes or prison; or if she leads you to war, to be wounded or to die, this you must do, and it is right; you must not give way or retreat or leave your post, but in war and in court and everywhere you must do whatever city and country commands, or else convince her where the right lies. Violence is not allowed against mother or father, much less against your country.

He was walking down a narrow street in Beirut, Lebanon, the air thick with the smell of Arabic coffee and grilled chicken. It was midday, and he was sweating badly beneath his flannel shirt. The so-called South Lebanon conflict, the Israeli occupation, which had begun in 1982 and would last until 2000, was in its fifth year. The small white Fiat came screeching around the corner with four masked men inside. His cover was that of an aid worker from Chicago and he wasn’t strapped. But now he wished he had a weapon, if only to have the option of ending it before they took him. He knew what that would mean. The torture first, followed by the years of solitary. Then his corpse would be lifted from the trunk of a car and thrown into a drainage ditch. By the time it was found, the insects would’ve had a feast and his mother would have nightmares, because the authorities would not allow her to see his face when they flew his body home. He didn’t run, because the only place to run was back the way he’d come, and a second vehicle had already stopped halfway through a three-point turn, all but blocking off the street. They exited the Fiat fast. He was fit and trained, but he knew they’d only make it worse for him in the close confines of the car if he fought them. There was a time for that and a time for raising your hands, he’d learned. He took an instep hard in the groin, and a cosh over the back of his head as he doubled over. He blacked out then. The makeshift cell Hezbollah had kept him in in Lebanon was a bare concrete room, three metres square, without windows or artificial light. The door was wooden, reinforced with iron strips. When they first dragged him there, he lay in the filth that other men had made. They left him naked, his wrists and ankles chained. He was gagged with rag and tape. They had broken his nose and split his lips. Each day they fed him on half-rancid scraps like he’d seen people toss to skinny dogs. He drank only tepid water. Occasionally, he heard the muted sound of children laughing, and smelt a faint waft of jasmine. And then he could not say for certain how long he had been there; a month, maybe two. But his muscles had wasted and he ached in every joint. After they had said their morning prayers, they liked to hang him upside down and beat the soles of his feet with sand-filled lengths of rubber hose. His chest was burned with foul-smelling cigarettes. When he was stubborn, they lay him bound in a narrow structure shaped like a grow tunnel in a dusty courtyard. The fierce sun blazed upon the corrugated iron for hours, and he would pass out with the heat. When he woke up, he had blisters on his skin, and was riddled with sand fly and red ant bites. The duo were good at what they did. He guessed the one with the grey beard had honed his skills on Jewish conscripts over many years, the younger one on his own hapless people, perhaps. They looked to him like father and son. They took him to the edge of consciousness before easing off and bringing him back with buckets of fetid water. Then they rubbed jagged salt into the fresh wounds to make him moan with pain. They asked the same question over and over until it sounded like a perverse mantra. “Who is The Mandarin? His name? Who is The Mandarin?” He took to trying to remember what he looked like, the architecture of his own face beneath the scruffy beard that now covered it, and found himself flinching at the slightest sound. They had peeled back his defences with a shrewdness and deliberation that had both surprised and terrified him. By the time they freed him, he was a different man.  

Rejoice, O father Adam, and exult yet more, O mother Eve—you who, though the parents of all, were their destroyers even before you became their parents. Be consoled now in your daughter, and in such a daughter! you especially, O Eve, from whom the evil first originated, and whose reproach passed as a disgraceful legacy to womanhood. The time is at hand when that reproach shall be taken away. Wherefore, O Eve, hasten to Mary; hasten, O Mother, to your daughter. Let the daughter answer for the mother; let her take away her mother’s reproach; let her satisfy also for her father Adam, for if he fell by a woman, behold, he is now raised up by a woman. God gave a woman in exchange for a woman; a prudent woman for one that was foolish; a humble woman for one who was proud; one who, instead of the fruit of death, shall give you to eat of the tree of life, and who, in place of the poisoned food of bitterness, will bring forth the fruit of everlasting sweetness. Change now, O Adam, your wicked words of excuse to the song of endless thanksgiving, and say: “O Lord, the woman whom thou hast given me, gave me of the tree of life; and I have eaten, and its fruit has been sweeter than honey to my mouth, and by it thou hast given me life.” This is why the angel was sent to the Virgin. O wondrous and most honourable Virgin! O woman singularly venerable! admirable among all women! thou who hast satisfied for thy parents, and restored life to their posterity.

I know High Ladies are probably supposed to wear a new dress every day,' I mused, smiling at the gown, 'but I'm rather attached to this one.' He ran his hand down my thigh. 'I'm glad.' 'You never told me where you got it- where you got all my favourite dresses.' Rhys arched a dark brow. 'You never figured it out?' I shook my head. For a moment, he said nothing, his head dipping to study the dress. 'My mother made them.' I went still.' Rhys smiled sadly at the shimmering gown. 'She was a seamstress, back at the camp where she'd been raised. She didn't just do the work because she was ordered to. She did it because she loved it. And when she mated my father, she continued.' I grazed a reverent hand down my sleeve. 'I- I had no idea. His eyes were star-bright. 'Long ago, when I was still a boy, she made them- all your gowns. A trousseau for my future bride.' His throat bobbed. 'Every piece... Every piece I have ever given you to wear, she made them. For you.' My eyes stung as I breathed. 'Why didn't you tell me?' 'He shrugged with one shoulder. 'I thought you might be... disturbed to wear gowns made by a female who died centuries ago.' I put a hand over my heart. 'I am honoured, Rhys. Beyond words.' His mouth trembled a bit. 'She would have loved you.' It was as great a gift as any I'd been given. I leaned down until our brows touched. I would have loved her. I felt his gratitude without him saying a word as we remained there, breathing each other in for long minutes.

Chanakya has considered the Mother who gives birth to you, the Brahmin, who performs your religious thread ceremony, the Guru, who teaches you, the person, who feeds you and one who dispels fear, having the status of your Father. He says man should be indebted to them and should always respect/honour them.

The Priceless Job of Motherhood God of Heaven! I am here on Earth To follow a Divine mandate Of being a loving Mother I know I have no strength To this on my own I pray for your wisdom So, I can carry this task Without a fright As I raise these children Please help me remember I was never hired for this role But highly favoured, to find myself in it Hence, I acknowledge this privilege Lord, I lift my hands And bow to Your Majestic name I say from the top of my voice Thank you Father For the priceless job of Motherhood!

To those whose eyes may fall on these lines, may I not be excused saying, 'See to it that you honour your father and your mother, not only that your days may be long in the land, but that you may not, in after years, be disturbed by useless longings to have back again the precious ones who so ceaselessly and unselfishly toiled with heart and brain for your profoundest well-being.

Flower killers ( PART 1 ) Flower killers There is a war going on out there, Wherever you turn to see, it is everywhere, Guns firing bullets that bear one address: kill, Who? Just anyone do it at your free will, And the guns spray death in all directions, Giving rise to endless predilections, That of a father, a mother and a lover, Whoever the bullet may hit, is lost forever, And when bullets turn stray, They hit anything that comes in their way, It does not matter whether you are a foe or a friend, That time the bullet, only its purpose does defend, That to kill and shoot anyhow and anyone, It can be a father, a mother, a daughter, a lover, or just a human someone, And as the victim falls and collapses on the ground, The bullet pierces deeper like the canines of a hungry hound, And no matter how hard you tried it cannot be bound, Because the war is everywhere and so is its echoing and deathly sound, That tempts the bullet to travel and shoot someone, somewhere, And it couldn't be happier than now, because the war is everywhere, Yesterday a stray bullet whizzed through the air, And it hit a flower that had just bloomed and looked fair, Its petals got shredded into countless pieces, The pollen grains flew in the air and fell in different places, And as they fell, they all cried, “murder!” But the bullet had no intention to surrender, The tattered flower petals fell on the ground, I realised there is a new gang called, “flower killers” and they abound, The bee and the butterfly desperately searched for their missing flower, And ah the pain they felt as a dismayed lover, Their wings dropped and they fell to ground like dead autumn leaves, Where except the bullet, even death grieves, The other flowers looked helplessly at the fallen youth and it's still falling memories, And in honour of the killed flower, they named their garden, the garden of tragedies, And to pay their homages, they all wilted on the same day, The garden looked barren even on a new Summer day, The bullet that killed the flower lies embedded in the fence, Same bullet that killed someone who possessed nothing in self defence, Continued in part 2...

If you hear in my voice—I don’t know that it is so, but I hope it is—if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!” She held him closer round the neck and rocked him on her breast like a child. “If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste, and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank God for us, thank God!