Making sensible family rules around cell phones and driving is a

Hear, O seekers of wisdom and guardians of home, the words of Glennon Doyle Melton, whose heart has wrestled with the storms of modern living and yet emerged radiant with truth: “Making sensible family rules around cell phones and driving is a way to love yourself, your marriage, your children, and the world well.” These words, gentle yet mighty, remind us that in a world of glowing screens and restless motion, the truest form of love is not indulgence but boundaries. To set rules is not to restrict freedom — it is to protect life, to honor presence, and to cherish what is sacred in the small and fleeting moments of the day.

In the age of the ancients, wisdom came not from abundance but from attention. The mother tending the fire, the father walking the road, the child listening to the stories of elders — all these were acts of mindfulness, ways of being wholly present with one another. Yet now, in the modern era, the hum of the cell phone has replaced the crackle of the hearth. Eyes once lifted toward the stars are now fixed upon screens, and hearts that once beat in unison are distracted by distant noise. Doyle’s call is therefore a return to the old ways — not in form, but in spirit — a reminder that love requires awareness, and awareness requires discipline.

To make sensible family rules is to act as a steward of your household’s peace. It is to say, “Here is the line between what connects us and what consumes us.” It is not the rule itself that matters, but the care behind it. For when one insists that no phone shall be held while driving, it is not mere obedience that is sought — it is the preservation of life, the protection of children who await a parent’s return, the safeguarding of dreams that would otherwise perish in a moment’s distraction. Thus, every small act of restraint becomes a sacrifice offered to love itself.

Remember the story of Ulysses, who, sailing past the Sirens, had himself bound to the mast so he would not steer his ship to ruin. In that act of self-restraint lies the same spirit Doyle speaks of. For the Sirens of our age do not sing from the sea — they sing from our screens, luring us with endless calls and flashing lights. To set rules around these temptations is not weakness, but wisdom. It is to say: “I will master my tools; they shall not master me.”

And yet, Doyle’s wisdom extends beyond safety. She speaks also of marriage, of children, and of the world. For when the devices of our age invade every sacred space, they build invisible walls between hearts. The husband no longer hears his wife’s quiet sigh; the child no longer sees his parent’s eyes when speaking. To reclaim attention is to reclaim love. To silence the phone is to hear again the laughter at the dinner table, the whisper of prayer before sleep, the quiet breathing of those who share our lives. This, too, is a way of loving the world well — not by grand gestures, but by small and faithful choices that ripple outward into peace.

We may also remember the teachings of the wise Confucius, who said that harmony in the state begins with order in the family. The home, he taught, is the seed of civilization. When a family lives in disorder — when distraction reigns and presence fades — the world itself trembles. But when a household lives in balance, where love governs technology and not the other way around, then the world gains light. Thus, the home is a temple, and its rules are prayers made visible.

So, my children of the digital age, take this lesson to heart: love is structure, not chaos. Do not fear the making of rules, for they are the fence around your garden, keeping out the thorns of distraction and destruction. Let every family agree on moments of stillness — a meal without screens, a drive without devices, a day each week devoted to presence. In these small practices, hearts will awaken again to the music of life.

For in truth, to love well is not to give everything, but to guard what matters most. To love your self, your marriage, your children, and your world, learn to choose presence over distraction, wisdom over impulse, and silence over noise. And when you do, you will find that love — like a hearth once forgotten — still burns bright, waiting for you to come home.