Quotes about Sister

Say to the seceded States, "Wayward sisters, depart in peace."

England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?

Allport, Gordon W., in his preface to Man's Search for Meaning: "WHY DO YOU NOT COMMIT SUICIDE?" Dr. Frankl asks his patients. . . . in one life there is love for one's children to tie to; in another life, a talent to be used; in a third, perhaps only lingering memories worth preserving. . . . As a long-time prisoner in bestial concentration camps he [Viktor Frankl] found himself stripped to naked existence. His father, mother, brother, and his wife died in camps or were sent to gas ovens, so that, excepting for his sister, his entire family perished in these camps. How could he - every possession lost, every value destroyed, suffering from hunger, cold and brutality, hourly expecting extermination - how could he find life worth preserving?

When called to the Council of the Twelve, October 4, 1963, he said in the Salt Lake Tabernacle: I think of a little sister, a French-Canadian sister, whose life was changed by the missionaries as her spirit was touched. As she said good-by to me and my wife in Quebec, she said, "President Monson, I may never see the Prophet. I may never hear the Prophet. But President, far better, now that I am a member of this Church, I can obey the Prophet."

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

While doing relief work in India I met Abdul. He was old, crippled and blind. He had been a college professor and spoke perfect English. His mind was sharp and clear, and he taught me much about India. Near the end of my stay I asked, "Abdul, what could I pray for - for you?" A smile illuminated his face, and he sighed, "Sister ... I don't know ... I have everything. I stood dumbfounded. This poor man, suffering terrible disfigurement, had everything? Then in his beautific smile I saw his joy, his serenity, his sacred calm. And I knew what Jesus meant when he told us, "Blessed are the poor in spirit." For, wanting nothing, Abdul had that peace which passes all understanding.

. . . this oligarchy of sex, which makes fathers, brothers, husbands and sons, the oligarchs over the mother and sisters, the wife and daughters of every household - which ordains all men sovereigns, all women subjects, carries dissension, discord, and rebellion into every house of the nation.

It is useless, sisters, for you to attempt the duties of your exalted callings . . . without the constant companionship of the Spirit of God.

Those are the same stars, and that is the same moon, that look down upon your brothers and sisters, and which they see as they look up to them, though they are ever so far away from us, and each other.

Never praise a sister to a sister in the hope of your compliments reaching the proper ears.

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

I learned respect for womanhood from my father's tender caring for my mother, my sister, and his sisters. Father was the first to arise from dinner to clear the table. My sister and I would wash and dry the dishes each night at Father's request. If we were not there, Father and Mother would clean the kitchen together.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human.

The good deed you do today For a brother or sister in need Will come back to you some day For humanity's a circle in deed.

Actual evidence I have none, But my aunt's charwoman's sister's son Heard a policeman, on his beat Say to a housemaid in Downing Street That he had a brother, who had a friend, Who knew when the war was going to end.

The subject of the poem was Bridget of Kildare (450-523), a Christian lass among the Druids in Ireland. Saint Bridget was A problem child. Although a lass Demure and mild, And one who strove To please her dad, Saint Bridget drove The family mad. For here's the fault in Bridget lay: She WOULD give everything away. To any soul Whose luck was out She'd give her bowl Of stirabout; She'd give her shawl, Divide her purse With one or all. And what was worse, When she ran out of things to give She'd borrow from a relative. Her father's gold, Her grandsire's dinner, She'd hand to cold and hungry sinner; Give wine, give meat, No matter whose; Take from her feet The very shoes, And when her shoes had gone to others, Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's. She could not quit. She had to share; Gave bit by bit The silverware, The barnyard geese, The parlor rug, Her little niece-'s christening mug, Even her bed to those in want, And then the mattress of her aunt. An easy touch For poor and lowly, She gave so much And grew so holy That when she died Of years and fame, The countryside Put on her name, And still the Isles of Erin fidget With generous girls named Bride or Bridget. Well, one must love her. Nonetheless, In thinking of her Givingness, There's no denial She must have been A sort of trial Unto her kin. The moral, too, seems rather quaint. WHO had the patience of a saint, From evidence presented here? Saint Bridget? Or her near and dear?

O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.

Listen to these wounds of pain put in the form of questions to me by a young woman who had had two abortions: "I wonder about the spirits of those I had aborted, if they were there, if they were hurt? I was under three months each time, but a mother feels life before she feels movement." "I wonder if they are lost and alone?" "I wonder if they will ever have a body?" "I wonder if I will ever have a chance again to bring those spirits back as mine?" Alas, brothers and sisters, "wickedness never was happiness" (Alma 41:10).

None of us need one more person bashing or pointing out where we have failed or fallen short. Most of us are already well aware of the areas in which we are weak. What each of us does need is family, friends, employers, and brothers and sisters who support us, who have the patience to teach us, who believe in us, and who believe we're trying to do the best we can, in spite of our weaknesses. What ever happened to giving each other the benefit of the doubt? What ever happened to hoping that another person would succeed or achieve? What ever happened to rooting for each other? [Satan's] tactic is stirring up hatred among the children of men. He loves to see us criticize each other, make fun or take advantage of our neighbor's known flaws, and generally pick on each other. There will always be those in the days ahead who will be inclined to bash ourselves and others, but we cannot allow a heavy, crushing blow to destroy us or deter our personal or church progress.

If physical death is the price that I must pay to free my white brothers and sisters from a permanent death of the spirit, then nothing can be more redemptive.

Persistence is the twin sister of excellence. One is a matter of quality; the other, a matter of time.

Brothers and sisters, friends and enemies: I just can't believe that everyone in here is a friend and I don't want to leave anybody out.

Why not simply honor your parents, love your children, help your brothers and sisters, be faithful to your friends, care for your mate with devotion, complete your work cooperatively and joyfully, assume responsibility for problems, practice virtue without first demanding it of others, understand the highest truths yet retain an ordinary manner? That would be true clarity, true simplicity, true mastery.

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-a-Bye, Around about the wonderous days of yore, They came across a sort of box, all bound with chains and locked with locks, And labeled, "Kindly Do Not Touch... It's War". A decree was issued 'round about, all with a flourish and a shout, And a gaily-coloured mascot tripping lightly on before: "Don't fiddle with this deadly box, or break the chains, or pick the locks, And please, don't ever mess about with War". Well, the children understood; children happen to be good, And were just as good in those wonderous days of yore. They didn't try to break the locks, or break into that deadly box, And never tried to play about with War. Mommies didn't either; sisters, aunts, nor grannies neither; 'Cause they were quiet and sweet and pretty In those wonderous days of yore. Well, very much the same as now, and really not to blame somehow, For opening up that deadly box of War. But someone did... Someone battered in the lid, and spilled the insides all across the floor: A sort of bouncy, bumpy ball, made up of flags and guns and all The tears and the horror and the death that goes with War. It bounced right out, and went bashing all about Bumping into everything in store; And what was sad and most unfair, was that it really didn't seem to care Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for. It bumped the children mainly, and I'll tell you this quite plainly, It bumps them everyday, and more and more; And leaves them dead and burned and crying, Thousands of them sick and dying, 'Cause when it bumps, it's very, very sore. There is a way to stop the ball... it isn't very hard at all; All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure We could get it back inside the box, and bind the chains and lock the locks, But no one seems to want to save the children anymore. Well, that's the way it all appears, 'Cause it's been bouncing 'round for years and years, In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wonderous days of yore; And the time they came across the box, All bound with chains and locked with locks, And labeled, "Kindly Do Not Touch... It's War".

Women opened the windows of my eyes and the doors of my spirit. Had it not been for the woman-mother, the woman-sister, and the woman-friend, I would have been sleeping among those who seek the tranquility of the world with their snoring.

What are the wild waves saying, Sister, the whole day long, That ever amid our playing I hear but their low, lone song?

It is true, we do not like to lose a good, kind companion, a wife, a husband, a child, a brother, a sister, or any of our near and dear friends or relatives; but we have to do it, and it is right and proper that we should. They go a little before us; when we get there they will receive and welcome us and say, "God bless you, you have come at last." That is the way I look at it. I ex pect to strike hands and embrace my friends who have gone before.

Smith's first report of his salvation at the hands of Pocahontas evidently occurs in a 1616 letter to Queen Anne, written to notify the Crown of his debt to the Indian princess "before she [Pocahontas] arrived at London. . . . "(John Smith, The General History of Virginia) Pocahontas disembarked at Plymouth, England with her husband, John Rolfe, on June 31, 1616, to become the first Indian woman ever to visit Britain. Her subsequent success with the royal court is well-known. "That some ten yeeres agoe being in Virginia, and taken prisoner by the power of Powhatan their chiefe king, I received from this great Salvage exceeding great courtesie, especially from his sonne Nantaquaus . . . and his sister Pocahontas, the kings most deare and wel-beloved daughter, being but a childe of twelve or thirteen yeeres of age, whose compassionate pitifull heart, of my desperate estate, gave me much cause to respect her: I being the first Christian this proud king and his grim attendants ever saw: and thus inthralled in their barbarous power, I cannot say I felt the least occasion of want that was in the power of those my mortall foes to prevent, notwithstanding al their threats. After some six weeks fatting amongst those Salvage Courtiers, at the minute of my execution, she hazarded the beating out of her owne braines to save mine, and not onely that, but so prevailed with her father, that I was safely conducted to James towne..."

The chilly December day! two shivering bicycle mechanics from Dayton, Ohio first felt their homemade contraption whittled out of hickory sticks, gummed together with Arnstein's bicycle cement, stretched with muslin they'd sewn on their sister's sewing machine in their own backyard on Hawthorn Street in Dayton, Ohio, soar into the air above the dunes and the wide beach at Kitty Hawk.

O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.