Lighthouse Family Quotes

These are all I have. I do not have the wide, bright beacon of some solid old lighthouse, guiding ships safely home, past the jaggedrocks. I only have these little glimmers that flicker and then go out.

When the bell of my flat rings at four o’clock in the afternoon, I don’t expect a policeman to be standing outside. “Sorry to disturb you sir,” he says. “Detective sergeant McCorquodale. It’s about your mother.” Detective sergeant McCorquodale is an enormous lighthouse of a man with the untroubled skin of a baby and not a trace of facial hair; a sort of man-boy who’s overdosed on growth hormones.

Let him be fifty feet away, let him not even speak to you, let him not even see you, he permeated, he prevailed, he imposed himself. He changed everything.

James was sixteen, Cam seventeen, perhaps. She had looked round for someone who was not there, for Mrs. Ramsay, presumably. But there was only kind Mrs. Beckwith turning over her sketches under the lamp. Then, being tired, her mind still rising and falling with the sea, the taste and smell that places have after long absence possessing her, the candles wavering in her eyes, she had lost herself and gone under. It was a wonderful night, starlit; the waves sounded as they went upstairs; the moon surprised them, enormous, pale, as they passed the staircase window. She had slept at once.

Life is a nomadic journey. A road without trees to shelter us from the rain, without shoulders on which to rest, without lighthouses to show us the way when we are lost. I can’t waste the life I’ve been given by standing still and lamenting the past until my days run out. I must get up and fight; I must keep providing for my family. I must keep moving forward, not just for myself, but also for my daughter and for all those who are no longer with us. Because in the end, that’s why we’re here, right? The only reason we are given life is to live it.

Sometimes we do very little outreach in our community and don’t let our light shine because there is an area of

He laughed until his ears were quite red!

Why, workin’ people are the grandest folks in the whole wide world. They set the steamships on the ocean and the lighthouse on the land, they give us our breakfast coffee and a roof over our heads at night.

The Bishop family was not wealthy. The Bishop family had no investments to speak of or squabble over, no shares to gain interest from, no inheritance--either present or forthcoming--to preoccupy or estrange them. The Bishop family had no priceless works of art, no inestimable and enviable heirlooms to fill their rooms. But the Bishop family had each other, bound together in the dearest loyalty, the deepest love, protective one of the other unto death. It was this spirit that permeated the little cottage by the lighthouse night and day...

Identify your strengths, and then—this is important—major in them. Take a few irons out of the fire so this one can get hot. Failing to focus on our strengths may prevent us from accomplishing the unique tasks God has called us to do. A lighthouse keeper who worked on a rocky stretch of coastline received oil once a month to keep his light burning. Not being far from a village, he had frequent guests. One night a woman needed oil to keep her family warm. Another night a father needed oil for his lamp. Then another needed oil to lubricate a wheel. All the requests seemed legitimate, so the lighthouse keeper tried to meet them all. Toward the end of the month, however, he ran out of oil, and his lighthouse went dark, causing several ships to crash on the coastline. The man was reproved by his superiors, “You were given the oil for one reason,” they said, “to keep the light burning.”1 We cannot meet every need in the world. We cannot please every person in the world. We cannot satisfy every request in the world. But some of us try. And in the end, we run out of fuel. Have a sane estimate of your abilities and stick to them.

The lighthouse is remote enough that it’s not automatic, but still manned, and as Gammy tells me the story of her family and how they’ve always kept it, passed from generation to generation, I feel her deep sense of home. I can feel it in the earth, too, when I get out of the car and walk upon the rocks. It’s in the sky and the roaring ocean and the keening of the wind, it’s in the way she strides over her land and into her lighthouse; she owns this place and it owns her, tangible and unarguable. What must it be like to be bound so deeply and willingly to a place?

I’m so confused about who I am,” she admitted to him. “I don’t know anymore.” “I do,” he said. “You’re the girl who wants to be heard. And what she doesn’t know is that while she thinks no one is listening, we all hear her. You’re the girl who loves people by taking care of them, and that’s why you’re having such a hard time right now. You feel that being able to support your family is how you show your love for them. But they all see it anyway. Your strength is in the glow that radiates from you when you walk into a room. It’s magical because we all see it—it blinds us—even if you don’t see it.” He wiped a tear from her cheek, his words hitting her hard. “Your presence is strong enough that you took a man who didn’t think he could ever feel again and made him so excited to face the day that he couldn’t sleep at night. That’s who you are.

Saffy had never been an easy child. Defiant and headstrong, she was born with a will already forged in iron. Nonetheless, I’d always expected that having a teenager would be a turning point, the part of parenthood where everything got better. Throughout those early years of nappies, teething, tantrums and night terrors I’d consoled myself by imagining a time when my girls were old enough to be self-sufficient. Maybe then I wouldn’t be pulled in three different directions, always spinning plates. But Saffy’s defiance had grown into disrespect and contempt. I felt as though I needed an emotional suit of armour to protect myself from her spiteful comments. She resented every thought, cell, breath, and ounce of me.

Welcome to Cedar Cove, where the extraordinary bonds that hold family and friends together are only the beginning.

Welcome to Cedar Cove, where the extraordinary bonds that hold family and friends together are

Odd stood out on the point, watching the distant lightning in the east, watching the moonrise in the vacuum of the leaving storm. He could feel the booming surf under his feet, vibrating up through the basalt. He could feel the weather lowering, too, behind his glass eye.

And so he read the story of the life of Christ. He read for hours, until the first light of Christmas morning was showing on the edge of the dark sky. When finally he put the book down and laid his head back, he realized that his own sorrow and suffering were nothing next to the world's.

She’s the bright light in the dark skies, the light in the lighthouse that cuts through the fog and guides the ships home. It doesn’t matter how bleak or dark it is, she’s there, bright and ever shining.

All right! All right!' said Moomintroll loudly. He swallowed his coffee and stamped down the stairs and out into the chilly autumn morning. The fog was still there. The lighthouse vanished into it like a huge pillar and the top of it was invisible. Up there, somewhere in the billowing fog, sat his family, just not understanding him.

Dorjan didn’t know whether to admire the record keeper who’d been added to his family or just call the man odd for his dedication to recording small things. Some people are record keepers. Lighthouse keepers, for instance. Weather keepers for the almanac. There are organizations with profound record-keeping characteristics such as archivists for arts and history museums, research scientists, political biographers, and the recent Internal Revenue Service which could be up to no good, but what was Rich up to?

Once upon a time, there was a colony of water bugs. They were a close colony, a family. Where one went, the others went. But every so often, one would straggle away on their own, crawl onto a lily pad, and never return. This was a great mystery to the family of water bugs. They couldn’t figure out what was happening to their family members, or why they disappeared. They talked about it often, and worried about it, but they could never figure it out.” Finn opens his eyes now, and stares out at the water, past me, past the waves, and out to the horizon. He fixes his gaze on the red lighthouse in the distance, on the pelicans that dive for their dinner around it, and the waves that break apart against the rocks. “Well, one day, another water bug climbed onto the lily pad, drawn there by invisible forces from within itself, forces it didn’t understand and couldn’t control. As it sat there in the sun, it transformed into a beautiful dragonfly. It shed its water bug skin, and sprouted iridescent wings that gleamed in the sunlight. Wings so large and strong, it was able to fly into the air, doing loops in the sky. “The new dragonfly was ecstatic with it’s new body and thought to itself, ‘I need to go back and tell the others. They need to know that this is what happens so they won’t be scared.’ So he dipped and dove through the air, directly at the water. But unfortunately, he couldn’t dive below the surface to where the water-bugs were swimming. In his new form, the dragonfly was no longer able to communicate with his family. He felt at peace, though, because he knew that someday, his family would all transform too, and they’d all be together again.” Finn

Their concept of knowledge was eloquently expressed, for instance, by Muâdh b. Jabal (d. 18/639, one of the trusted lieutenants of the Prophet, and certainly no forerunner of Sufism): “Study knowledge, for studying knowledge is the fear of God. Searching for knowledge is the worship of Him. Learning knowledge is the glorification of Him. Doing research in knowledge is a holy war in His behalf. Teaching knowledge to those who do not know is charity. And lavishing knowledge upon those who deserve it is nearness to God. Knowledge is a friend in loneliness. It is company for him who is all by himself. It is a guide under any circumstances whatever, an ornament among friends, a relative among strangers, and a lighthouse on the road to Paradise. Through knowledge, God lifts up people and makes them guides toward the good (life) who serve as examples to be followed and whose actions are studied and imitated and whose opinions are accepted. Their friendship is desired by the angels who touch them with their wings. In consequence, everything wet or dry asks for forgiveness for them, down to the fish and the reptiles of the sea and the wild beasts and the domestic animals of the land, as well as heaven and its stars. Knowledge is the life of the heart after blindness (?), the light of the eyes after darkness, and the strength of the body after weakness. Through knowledge, man reaches the stations of the pious and the highest ranks. Reflecting upon knowledge and learning it are considered equivalent to the performance of fasting. It is an act of obedience to God, of worship of Him, and of declaring His oneness. It constitutes ascetic behavior. It accomplishes the strengthening of family ties. Knowledge is the leader, and action is its follower. It is an inspiration given to the blessed. It is something that is denied to the unfortunate.” Such general praise of knowledge is heard constantly throughout Muslim history, in almost the same words and phrases. Here, however, it is used as an argument, obviously fictious and unhistorical, to prove the exclusive concern of the ancient Muslims with knowledge, in the Sufî sense.

The Jenkins family, who took her in after the Kindertransport, gave her their surname. She didn’t expect to see any of her family again. This was supposed to be a fresh start for her, here in England. Her mother, God bless her, was already dead. Her father was in trouble with the authorities.’ ‘For doing what?’ Though I had pretty much guessed the answer: he was Jewish. ‘It’s just so stupid,’ I said, drying the plate rather roughly. ‘How can you hate someone just because of how they live their life?’ Mrs. Henderson sighed. ‘People like to have something to hate – it makes life easier when things go wrong if there’s someone to blame. Think about what happened here today with that pilot, Olive.’ She meant how quickly the crowd turned on him. It was frightening how easily normal, pleasant people got whipped up into nastiness. The possibility that something similar had happened to Esther’s family disturbed me. ‘But it’s worse than that, isn’t it?’ I said, thinking ‘The German pilot was a fighter from the enemy side. Esther’s family were… well… just people.’ ‘Yes, my dear,’ Mrs. Henderson sighed again, blowing damp strands of hair off her face. ‘Normal, educated, cultured people. It was all very well, the Kindertransport, but what good’s a child without its parents? You saw what it did to Esther.’ ‘Well, I’m glad they’re all here,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you helped them.’ Mrs. Henderson looked sad. ‘But we can’t save everyone… our government needs to take some responsibility and do much, much more. We should be helping them flee Hitler, not turning them away. We’ve had to smuggle these good people in like criminals.

Then Jim the cabbage man said, ‘Who in God’s name is going to tell Ephraim?’ And everyone started talking again. ‘He won’t take kindly to it…’ ‘Never known him live anywhere else, not since his family died…’ ‘That was a terrible winter, that was. The churchyard was full to bursting.’ ‘The lighthouse is his family these days…’ It made me realise how little I knew of Ephraim. Though I didn’t know how or when his family had died, I understood what it felt like to lose someone. Yet to lose all your family at once must be terrible, and sadness welled up in my throat. He had no one left; we had our mum, and even then it still hurt, knowing Dad would never be back. No wonder poor Ephraim never smiled. Mr. Spratt clapped his hands for quiet. ‘I’ll be visiting Mr Pengilly directly to inform him of my plans.’ ‘Good luck – you’ll need it,’ said Jim, shaking his head. The crowd dispersed soon after that. Glad to be going home, we walked down the hill, falling back into an even gloomier silence. Home. I’d already started thinking of the lighthouse in that way. Poor Ephraim: it’d be a hundred times worse for him and Pixie. Nor could I believe Mr. Spratt could just get rid of a lighthouse or indeed how he’d do it. Yet who’d have thought they’d evacuate all the zoo animals out of London or the famous paintings from the National Gallery? And what about us school children, sent from our families to the middle of nowhere? If you had a family: from what Queenie’d said, Esther didn’t even have that. All sorts were happening because of this war, not to mention missing sisters and codes I couldn’t break. There was so much I still didn’t understand. Maybe it was possible to remove a lighthouse, though I still wasn’t sure how.

When it seems like there is no way to make something happen, God makes a way.

The trouble with cousins, Lizabeth thought, was that they knew all about you, even your allergies.

The Hoel Chestnut becomes a landmark, what farmers call a sentinel tree. Families navigate by it on Sunday outings. Locals use it to direct travelers, the lone lighthouse in a grain-filled sea.

disobedience in our heart. When sin controls an area of our life or becomes an accepted part of our life together as a family, it hides the light of Jesus. The Bible is clear that 5 Every home and every family member battles with sin. We all do the very things we know we should not do.6 But there is a difference between struggling to resist sin through the power of the gospel and allowing or permitting sinful patterns to rule in our homes and lives. When we allow these patterns of disobedience to control our home, it no longer shines as a beacon of God’s love and light to others.

Life is a nomadic journey, Mr. Grapes. A road without trees to shelter us from the rain, without shoulders on which to rest, without lighthouses to show us the way when we are lost. I can’t waste the life I’ve been given by standing still and lamenting the past until my days run out. I must get up and fight; I must keep providing for my family. I must keep moving forward, not just for myself, but also for my daughter and for all those who are no longer with us. Because in the end, that’s why we’re here, right? The only reason we are given life is to live it.

About 180m (590 ft.) offshore is Kidston Island , owned by the town of Baddeck. It has a wonderful sand beach with lifeguards (sometimes—check with the visitor center) and an old lighthouse to explore. A shuttle service comes and goes, so check with the visitor center. The lovely Uisge Ban Falls (that’s Gaelic for “white water”) is the reward at the end of a 3km (1.8-mile) hike. The falls cascades 16m (52 ft.) down a rock face; the hike is through hardwood forest of maple, birch, and beech. Ask for a map at the visit center. Alexander Graham Bell National Historic Site HISTORIC SITE   Each summer for much of his life, Alexander Graham Bell—of Scottish descent, but his family emigrated to Canada when he was young—fled the heat and humidity of Washington, D.C., for this hillside retreat perched above Bras d’Or Lake. The mansion, still owned and occupied by

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing

We all have a responsibility to ensure that the abuse thousands of women endure is not normalised or tolerated, and that victims feel empowered to seek the help they need.

domestic abuse is an iceberg, shrouded below the waterline of ignorance.

One in four women will experience domestic violence at some point in their lifetime. Around two women a week are killed by a current or former partner in England and Wales.

And that’s the end,” she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interest of the story died away in them, something else take its place; something wondering, pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once made him gaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and there, sure enough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes and then one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had been lit.