“I Turned Off the Television and Turned Toward My Life”

📬 From Our Readers

“I Turned Off the Television and Turned Toward My Life”

Submitted to The Biblical Homestead

Dear friends,

I wanted to write and thank you—not just for your blog and your recipes and your beautiful way of sharing truth—but for something you said on your YouTube channel not long ago. It wasn’t a flashy message. It wasn’t a “new idea.” It was something plainspoken and, frankly, overdue.

You said:

“Screens can be a blessing or a curse—but left unchecked, they become noise, and that noise drowns out everything else.”

And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.

The Noise I Didn’t Notice

I’m in my sixties now, and I’ve lived a good bit of life. I’ve raised children. I’ve buried loved ones. I’ve known the sweetness of simple things and the ache of quiet seasons. But somewhere along the line, the television started staying on a little longer each day.

At first, it was just background.
Then it was companionship.
Then it was habit.

And one day I realized I wasn’t filling silence anymore—I was running from it.

I had invited the screen into every corner of my life. Not just the television, but the phone, the tablet, the “just one more episode” of something I didn’t even care about. I knew more about fictional characters than I did about the changing light on my front porch.

And worst of all, I could no longer hear God’s whisper—not because He stopped speaking, but because I stopped being still.

Screens as Tools, Not Thieves

The way you spoke about screens that day was like balm and truth all in one. You didn’t demonize them. You reminded me they can be good—if kept in their place.

Yes, a screen can bring fellowship when we’re isolated.
Yes, a good YouTube channel (like yours) can encourage and uplift.
Yes, the right words at the right time—even through a device—can reach a soul that needed it.

But you also said something I wrote down:

“What is meant to be a tool for good can easily become a thief of what matters most.”

And that struck me right in the heart.

What I’ve Missed—and What I’m Reclaiming

I started thinking about all the things I’ve let the noise replace:

• The sound of my own thoughts
• The stillness of prayer
• The soft creak of the porch swing in the evening
• The kind of peace that comes when the only voice in the room is God’s

I started thinking about what it’s cost me:

• Time
• Focus
• Quiet evenings with my husband
• Joy in the little things—because I was too distracted to notice them

I’ve let chaos march right into my living room—and not the loud, obvious kind.
The subtle kind. The normal kind.
The kind of chaos that doesn’t shout. It hums in the background, day after day, until your spirit feels tired, and you don’t know why.

A Small Shift That’s Already Changing Everything

So I turned it off.

Not forever. Not in a drastic, dramatic way.
Just long enough to hear again. Long enough to feel my home exhale.

I started sitting on the porch again with my tea, just listening to the birds and the wind.
I started reading Scripture out loud again so I could hear truth in my own voice.
I started turning on music that lifted my spirit instead of shows that numbed it.
I even started writing in my journal again—something I haven’t done in years.

And wouldn’t you know it…

The Lord was still right here.
He hadn’t gone anywhere.
I had just invited too many other voices to talk over Him.

Thank You for the Reminder

Your video reminded me that screens can’t love me back.
They can distract. They can entertain. But they can’t minister, not the way the Lord can.

And now, I’m turning more and more toward the life that’s actually mine:
The one with the dishes in the sink, the neighbor’s dog barking, the sun on the porch railing, the Word of God open and waiting.

You helped me remember that the peace I longed for wasn’t lost.
It was just being drowned out.

So thank you—for turning me back toward quiet.
For giving me permission to unplug from the noise.
And for helping me remember that real life—faithful, simple, God-honoring life—isn’t on a screen.

It’s right here.
And I don’t want to miss another minute of it.

With a quieted heart,
—Joanne M.
Midland County, MI