I'm really thankful for the time that I grew up in that we

Hear the words of Matt Skiba, who looks back upon the days of his youth with a heart full of wisdom: “I’m really thankful for the time that I grew up in that we didn’t have cell phones, and we made a lot of our own fun.” Though simple in form, these words are like a stream flowing from the mountain—clear, refreshing, and carrying with them the memory of a purer age. For they remind us of a world before constant noise, when joy was not purchased nor programmed, but created from imagination, from friendship, and from the endless sky above.

The meaning of these words lies not in disdain for modern tools, but in recognition of the value of simplicity. To live without cell phones was to live more fully in the present moment, to look into the eyes of companions without distraction, to invent laughter from little, to craft adventures out of ordinary days. This is the fun Skiba recalls—not the kind drawn from a glowing screen, but the kind that springs from the soul itself. The ancients would call this autarkeia—the power of self-sufficiency, the ability to find joy from within rather than depend upon outward devices.

Consider the children of old villages, who ran barefoot through fields, who carved toys from wood, who told stories by firelight when the day was done. Their lives were not free of hardship, but their joy was unmediated, their time filled with bonds forged in real presence. History gives us countless examples: the young Abraham Lincoln, before ever dreaming of presidency, studied by the light of a fireplace and entertained himself by reciting tales to his family. He lacked the tools of modern abundance, yet this deprivation was his strength—it sharpened his mind, stretched his creativity, and gave birth to resilience.

Skiba’s thankfulness is thus not nostalgia alone—it is recognition of a spiritual truth. To grow without constant devices is to be trained in attentiveness, in patience, in wonder. The silence of the woods, the laughter of friends, the creativity demanded by boredom—these were teachers as much as any classroom. They gave rise to independence of thought and the richness of memory. This is why he speaks with gratitude: for in that absence was abundance, and in that limitation was freedom.

Yet his words also carry a warning for us who dwell in the present age. The constant presence of cell phones can steal from us the treasure of direct experience. They promise connection but often deliver isolation, they offer entertainment but rob us of the sacred art of invention. If we forget how to make our own fun, then we forget how to be alive in the truest sense. The ancients knew that too much ease dulls the soul; only through effort, imagination, and fellowship is true joy born.

The lesson is clear: we must not allow our tools to master us. Let the phone serve as a servant, not as a master; let it connect, but not consume. Take time to set it aside, to walk, to speak, to laugh without recording, to play without broadcasting, to be present in the fleeting beauty of the moment. Seek out moments of silence and simplicity, for it is there that the heart rediscovers its strength.

Practical wisdom flows from this teaching. Parents, let your children taste the richness of unstructured play. Friends, make plans that do not depend on screens but on shared presence. Seek evenings of conversation, music, games, and wandering beneath the stars. Reclaim the sacred practice of making your own fun, for in doing so you honor not only the past but the deepest part of yourself.

Thus, Matt Skiba’s words become more than memory—they become a hymn of guidance. Be thankful for simplicity, seek joy in creativity, and do not be enslaved by the tools meant to serve you. For life’s truest treasures are not found in glowing devices, but in glowing hearts, and in the laughter shared face to face beneath the open sky.