Lighthouse Parents Quotes

Our parents' generation carried the past memorialized in paint, porcelain, and wood; we cast it off. Even our national history is remembered in terms of the worst we did, not the best.

You're not a monster,' I said. But I lied. What I really wanted to say was that a monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once. I read that parents suffering from PTSD are more likely to hit their children. Perhaps there is a monstrous origin to it, after all. Perhaps to lay hands on your child is to prepare him for war. To say processing a heartbeat is never as simple as the heart's task of saying yes yes yes to the body.

Neither parent spoke. Milo stood between them like a lighthouse between the rocks and the shipwreck.

On my seventh birthday, my father swore, for the first of many times, that I would die facedown in a cesspool. On that same occasion, my mother, with all the accompanying mystery and elevated language appropriate for a prominent diviner, turned her cards, screamed delicately, and proclaimed that my doom was written in water and blood and ice. As for me, from about that time and for twenty years since, I had spat on my middle finger and slapped the rump of every aingerou I noticed, murmuring the sincerest, devoutest prayer that I might prove my parents' predictions wrong. Not so much that I feared the doom itself - doom is just the hind end of living, after all - but to see the two who birthed me confounded.

There is a fine line between friendship and parenting, and when that line is crossed, the result is often disastrous. A parent who strives to make a true friend of his or her child may well sacrifice authority, and though that parent may be comfortable with surrendering the dominant position, the unintentional result will be to steal from that child the necessary guidance and, more importantly, the sense of security the parent is supposed to impart. On the opposite side, a friend who takes a role as parent forgets the most important ingredient of friendship: respect. For respect is the guiding principle of friendship, the lighthouse beacon that directs the course of any true friendship. And respect demands trust.

For a moment, Layla glanced at Amar's journals, but she could barely make sense of his handwriting. Each deciphered sentence threatened to unravel her understanding of him and carried with it the threat of more secrets. It did not matter that she was his mother. What she could ever hope to know of him was just a glimpse -- like the beam of a lighthouse skipping out, only one stretch of waves visible at a time, the rest left in the unknowable dark.

Woolf drew on her memories of her holidays in Cornwall for To the Lighthouse, which was conceived in part as an elegy on her parents. Her father was a vigorous walker and an Alpinist of some renown, a member of the Alpine Club and editor of the Alpine Journal from 1868 to 1872; he was the first person to climb the Schreckhorn in the Alps and he wrote on Alpine pleasures in The Playground of Europe (1871). By the time he married Julia Duckworth in 1878, however, a more sedentary Leslie Stephen was the established editor of the Cornhill Magazine, from which he later resigned to take up the editorship of the Dictionary of National Biography in 1882, the year of Woolf ’s birth. Stephen laboured on this monumental Victorian enterprise until 1990, editing single-handed the first twenty-six volumes and writing well over 300 biographical entries. He also published numerous volumes of criticism, the most important of which were on eighteenth-century thought and literature.

There is a fine line between friendship and parenting, and when that line is crossed, the result is often disastrous. A parent who strives to make a true friend of his or her child may well sacrifice authority, and though the parent may be comfortable with surrendering the dominant position, the unintentional result will be to steal from that child the necessary guidance and, more importantly, the sense of security the parent is supposed to impart. On the opposite side, a friend who takes a role as parents forgets the most important ingredient of friendship: respect. For respect is the guiding principle of friendship, the lighthouse beacon that directs the course of any true friendship. And respect demands trust.

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.

I’d had such high hopes for motherhood. And I wanted everything for my children. But every single day I had to confront the glaring reality that I simply wasn’t able to provide the kind of life they deserved. And it crushed me.

Each week day I dropped the girls off to school at eight am, then worked solidly until I collected them from afterschool club at five-thirty, often returning to the Longing once they were in bed. I enjoyed Finn’s conversational tour of Lòn Haven, and occasionally his death metal tapes. Here, on Lòn Haven, I was untethered from the past. Everything I’d carried for the last fifteen years – the shock of my pregnancy with Saffy, the grief at losing Sean, and now, that terrifying phone call – was gobbled up by the ravenous tide. And witnessing the Longing transform, stroke by stroke, into something a little less knackered, its former glory beginning to creep back, was rewarding. I felt that, maybe, I could start again, too.

I CONSIDERED going into town for breakfast the next morning, instead settling for Raisin Bran and an apple before returning to my garden project. If I was going to be an adult, I figured being a responsible one was probably my best course of action. I tracked down a pair of gloves in the shed out back and was on my way to the front garden when I changed my trajectory and headed to the previous evening’s party spot. It took me a few minutes, but when I arrived I wasn’t surprised to find garbage and empty beer cans strewn about, discarded in haste when the teenagers made a run for it after my threat. For the record, I didn’t follow through on it. Now I was reconsidering my decision. I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat and briefly considered leaving the mess – or calling Chief Terry to find out who Andy was so I could call his parents – before returning to the lighthouse to retrieve a garbage bag.

Thank you again for joining me in my journey with the Beacons of Hope. I hope the books have inspired you to visit a lighthouse or two. More than that, I pray you've been both encouraged and inspired to trust in the Giver of Hope. Maybe, like Nathaniel, you've let yourself be haunted by your parents' mistakes. Perhaps you've even started down the same destructive path. I pray God will help you break free of your chains and help you walk in His freedom down a new path. If you're like Abbie, having been hurt or abandoned by the people you thought loved you, I pray that you will recognize that God will never abandon you. He is always there offering you His hope, love, and forgiveness. Please, never forget all that He offers.

...a single parent, an honest-to-God buck-stops-with-me single parent was a rare species.

I feel a pang of sadness and wish there was a way for her to be here too. It seems so unfair that she works every day and we still have nothing, while Omar and Aaron have all this, and I've never seen their parents work.

For him wine had always been a pleasure, not a necessity, and his former Sunday attendance at church with Helen had been a weekly affirmation of his Englishness and of acceptable behaviour, a mildly agreeable obligation devoid of religious fervour. His parents had distrusted religious enthusiasm, and any wild clerical innovations which threatened their comfortable orthodoxy had been summed up by his mother: “We’re C of E, darling, we don’t do that sort of thing.” He found it odd that Boyde should resign because of recently acquired doubts about dogma; a loss of faith in dogma was an occupational hazard for priests of the Church of England, judging from the public utterances of some of the bishops.

Our parents’ generation carried the past memorialised in paint, porcelain and wood; we cast it off. Even our national history is taught or remembered in terms of the worst we did, not the best.

They were mostly from Austria, Mrs. Henderson told me, all Jewish but for one young woman – a ballerina – whose Romany parents had been put in prison by the Nazis. She was called Lyuba Zingari, which I thought a marvellous name, and was trying to get to America to become a famous dancer. ‘Hitler’s persecuting the Roma people too,’ Mrs. Henderson explained. ‘It’s dreadful. I often wonder where it will all end.

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.

I’d never met Queenie, but I knew she’d taken on running the village post office after her and Gloria’s parents died. She was only nineteen, so it was a big responsibility, but Gloria said that’s what the war did to people – it made them grow up fast.