Quotes About Family

I just had his hand in a vise," I protested indignantly. "It wasn't like I had a dagger in his ribs. 'Hand in a vise' is simple assault or, in my case, self-defense. 'Dagger in the ribs' is attempted murder. My family did teach me the difference.

Grandma said that a skillet's good for three things: frying chicken, baking corn bread, and going upside an obstinate man's head.

Family was who you shared a mission and a goal with; who you shared life and faced death with.

I'd been brief with her, not wanting her to stress over me and Lia. I mean, she knew I'd narrowly escaped death in freeing Lia from Castel o Paratore, but she didn't know all of the details. That, like, I'd almost been killed a dozen times. You just didn't tell your mom that kind of thing—not if you were trying to keep her from rushing you off to some safe tower.

Rodolfo lifted Alessandra's hand to his lips and kissed it. 'I have loved you, Alessandra. Do not forget that. Thank you...thank you for loving me.' She wept, curling her head in toward his good shoulder. 'Do not leave me, Rodolfo. Do not leave us. Chiara...and the baby...

Motherhood was an ever widening circle of good-byes.

My father, too, sacrificed more than I will ever know. As a little girl, I simply adored him and now that I'm grown, I still have to have my weekly "daddy fix." If you passed me on the freeway on any given weekend, you'd see me taking advantage of my free weekend minutes to talk to him on my cell phone.

You see, although my parents had both been saved as teenagers and loved the Lord, we didn't attend church regularly.

One of the best things a father can do for his daughter is let her know that she has met his expectations. My father did that for me, and no amount of effort on my part can fully repay the debt.

I learned that you need not be born into a family to be loved by one.

But the love of sisters needs no words. It does not depend on memories, or mementos, or proof. It runs as deep as a heartbeat. It is as ever present a s a pulse.

When you're a kid in a tough family situation, you're painfully vulnerable to trying to fill the void with peers.

It's strange how you can feel guilty for a family history you didn't have anything to do with, isn't it?

Story people are a bit like real people––no matter where their humble beginnings may lie, their journeys are shaped by family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, and all manner of acquaintances. Some encourage them, some guide them, some offer them unconditional love, some teach them, some challenge them to be their best. This story, like most stories, owes its existence to a village of unique and generous individuals.

much we may love the melody of a bygone day or imagine the song of a future one, we must dance within the music of today, or we will always be out of step, stumbling around in something that doesn't suit the moment. I let go of the river's song and found the music of that big house. I found room for a new life, a new mother who cared for me, and a new father who patiently taught me not only how to play music, but how to trust. He was as good a man as ever I've known.

love doesn't put food on the table. It doesn't keep a family safe.

I realize that those who have loved us are never really gone. They live on in all the ones we love and all the ways we love. They are the reason we know how to love at all.

Sisters are created not by blood but by love.

One of the best things a father can do for his daughter is let her know that she has met his expectations. My father did that for me, and no amount of effort on my part can fully repay the debt. I'd do anything for him, and for my mother. Now

But is life a success when it doesn't include time for after-school talks, and curling up to read books on winter nights, and weaving daisy chains in the summer? Is it a success when you have all the big things but none of the small ones? Is it as it should be when everybody grows up and moves to opposite coasts and doesn't care if they ever see each other?

Kids are supposed to grow up and cut the apron strings. I just never dreamed those sharp scissors would leave so many wounds.

It's funny how family histories seem to differ, depending on whom you ask.

Family members are often just frustrated that, no matter how hard they try to provide companionship, take care of chores, and so forth, they can't replace the person who's gone," Amanda-Lee said sympathetically. "When the grieving spouse talks about that person, the children and grandchildren take it as a complaint or a signal that they're not doing a good enough job. The reality is that the grieving spouse just needs someone to talk to, someone to reminisce with.

I cannot put words to the feelings within me on the day we brought her out for burial. It is an odd thing to stand so close to life's beginning and life's end. Birth and death are such strange cousins. We carried my mother to the graveyard, shed tears and sang hymns, then returned home, stood over the cradle, smiled, and sang lullabies. . . .