Henry Ward Beecher Quotes About Home
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Home should be the center of joy, equatorial and tropical.
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Whoever makes home seem to the young dearer and more happy, is a public benefactor.
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When our children die, we drop them into the unknown, shuddering with fear. We know that they go out from us, and we stand, and pity, and wonder. If we receive news, that a hundred thousand dollars had been left them by some one dying, we should be thrown into an ecstasy of rejoicing; but when they have gone home to God, we stand, and mourn, and pine, and wonder at the mystery of Providence.
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It is the color which love wears, and cheerfulness, and joy--these three. It is the light in the window of the face by which the heart signifies to father, husband, or friend that it is at home and waiting.
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Spreading Christianity abroad is sometimes an excuse for not having it at home.
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Brethren, we are all sailing home; and by and by, when we are not thinking of it, some shadowy thing (men call it death), at midnight, will pass by, and will call us by name, and will say, "I have a message for you from home; God wants you; heaven waits for you.
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Men who stand on any other foundation than the rock Christ Jesus are like birds that build in trees by the side of rivers. The bird sings in the branches, and the river sings below, but all the while the waters are undermining the soil about the roots, till, in some unsuspected hour, the tree falls with a crash into the stream; and then its nest is sunk, its home is gone, and the bird is a wanderer.
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Home should be an oratorio of the memory, singing to all our after life melodies and harmonies of old-remembered joy.
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Never be grandiloquent when you want to drive home a searching truth. Don't whip with a switch that has the leaves on, if you want it to tingle.
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Someone calls biography the home aspect of history.
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Death is the Christian's vacation morning. School is out. It is time to go home.
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There ought to be such an atmosphere in every Christian church that a man going there and sitting two hours should take the contagion of heaven, and carry home a fire to kindle the altar whence he came.
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Our sweetest experiences of affection are meant to be suggestions of that realm which is the home of the heart.
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A cup of coffee - real coffee - home-browned, home ground, home made, that comes to you dark as a hazel-eye, but changes to a golden bronze as you temper it with cream that never cheated, but was real cream from its birth, thick, tenderly yellow, perfect!
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Our yearnings are homesicknesses for heaven; our sighings are for God, just as children that cry themselves asleep away from home, and sob in their slumber, know not that they sob for their parents. The soul's inarticulate moanings are the affections yearning for the Infinite, and having no one to tell them what it is that ails them.
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