Living in a mid-century farmhouse means lots of natural light streaming in the windows found on every side of the house. It’s a design made for drawing cross-breezes in the days before air conditioning. Ventilation wasn’t a luxury; it was how to survive a hot, muggy Missouri summer.

And so, every spring, almost without conscious thought, I start opening the windows.

It’s not a dramatic decision. There’s no date on the calendar that tells me it’s time. It’s more of a feeling. What had been cozy and warm begins to seem closed, settled, and slightly stale.

There’s a subtle shift in the air, a slightly warmer ray of sun. Robins in the yard and bird-song in the breeze.

Then comes THE day, the one where the temperature is just right, and the air outside feels like something I’ve been missing without realizing it.

I find myself walking from room to room, lifting latches, pushing the panes aside, inviting the outside in.

First stop — front door. Lower the glass covering the screen. Then off to the west window, then the dining room.

The house doesn’t transform all at once, and at first, nothing much happens. The curtains shift slightly, like they’re restless and rediscovering their ability to move freely.

But give it a few minutes more and a faint breeze flows from the living room through the kitchen. Air moves. Stillness breaks. Something that felt dead shows signs of new life.

Opening Is Only the Beginning

This Lenten season we’ve spent time noticing what accumulated, clearing what we could and sitting with what remained.

And then…EASTER!

Full of life and breath and movement, reminding me that, even after stillness, life continues.

Today, standing in a house with windows open on every side, I realize opening the windows is only the first step.

There’s a line in from the gospel of John that’s been in the back of my mind as I’ve opened windows this week: “The wind blows where it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it’s going (3:8).

Yes, I opened the windows, but the fresh air doesn’t ask permission to enter or sit politely in the room! The air is the air. It moves as it moves. Coming from unexpected directions, it shifts things we have neatly in place.

For people like me who prefer a little more predictability, that can sometimes feel…unsettling. Wouldn’t it be easier to close everything back up, turn on the air conditioning, and return to the controlled, predictable stillness.

Because open windows bring sounds and scents and unpredictability. A crash as the curtains catch a picture frame and knock it to the floor. The smell of a lilac on the breeze. There’s the irregular clank of the wreath bouncing against the front door.

When I leave the windows open something begins to change, and the house starts to feel different because something new is moving through it.

And isn’t that what the Easter season invites us into?

Not a sudden transformation where everything is fixed and flawless, but a quieter shift of breath returning and movement where before there was only stillness.

Life continuing on.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in life do you to sense something opening — even just a little?

An Invitation: This week, resist the urge to close it too quickly.

Let the air move and the breeze blow where it pleases.

Even if it feels unfamiliar.
Even if it stirs things up a little.
Even if it’s not entirely comfortable yet.

You don’t have to overhaul everything — just open a window and see what happens.

With you in the open air,

A few weeks ago our washing machine finally gave up.

It had been acting wonky for a while, with the sensors periodically filling and draining at the same time. We wondered how much longer it would keep going — until one day it was done.

No amount of unplugging, hitting cancel, or restarting made the slightest difference. A call to the repairman quickly confirmed our diagnosis. So we did what people eventually do with worn-out appliances. We replaced it.

The new washer arrived a few days later, bright, quiet, and surprisingly efficient. The first time I started a load of laundry, I stood there for a moment just listening to the steady hum of a washing machine doing precisely what it was meant to do.

After weeks of thinking about lint traps, vent lines, delicate cycles, stains, and all the small metaphors of laundry that carried through this Lenten season, I found myself noticing the sound of happy washing.

Where once there was only stillness, now there is noise and movement.

Where there was a dead washer, there is new life.

Easter at the Crossroads

The Easter story also proves the cross is not the end.

After the grief and despair of Good Friday and the long stillness of Saturday, something unexpected happens — the tomb is empty!

Life appears, and the narrative picks up in a surprising way.

Easter is a bold declaration that despair, brokenness, and sorrow do not have the last word. Resurrection does not erase the marks of the past, but it tells us something far deeper.

Here at the crossroads between death and resurrection, Easter never promises us that every broken place will be restored exactly as it was before. Easter morning whispers something new…something better.

The story is not over.

This is a new day, and life goes on.

Grace washes over us.

Love pours out.

Even in a world where we sometimes miss the mark.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life have you begun to notice breath returning?

An Invitation: Try to pay attention today to the signs of life and warmth returning, to the faint stirring of hope where everything once felt still.

Remember — your story is not over.

With you in the clearing,

There are things in my life I cannot fix.

Earlier this week I pulled one of my favorite shirts out of the dryer and —Dag Nabbit! — discovered an unexpected stain on the sleeve.

Then I remembered splooshing coffee on the sleeve of my black cardigan sweater. I was busy zooming around and didn’t think about it soaking through to the light colored shirt I had on underneath.

Time and a trip through the dryer meant the stain was probably set.

Hoping against hope, I tried treating the stain after the fact. A healthy squirt of blue Dawn and a second wash. Stain sticks, lye soap, and yet another wash. But in the end, I have a fantastically clean shirt…with a stain that never completely disappeared.

There are things like that: something that, once stained or broken, can’t be brought back to the way it was.

If you’ve lived long enough, you probably know something about that, too.

A conversation that ended badly.

A relationship that unexpectedly changed shape.

A moment when words came out sharper than we intended.

Or words that never came at all.

Time doesn’t rewind, and while apologies may matter, they can’t always restore what once was.

Where Good Friday Meets Us

This is the place Good Friday meets us. Not where everything has been resolved, but in the broken places.

The story of Good Friday is not a story about quick rescue. It’s a story about God in flesh made manifest, stepping fully into the human condition.

The story of Good Friday is a mess of betrayal, abandonment, misunderstanding, and pain.

And right there in the center of the Good Friday story we find Jesus. He doesn’t stand apart from our brokenness — he stands inside it.

Inside the places where we have missed the mark.

Inside the places where repair arrived too late.

Inside the places where something precious has already been lost.

The remarkable thing about the story of Good Friday is not that Jesus escapes suffering.

It’s that he does not walk away.

He doesn’t defend himself or seek to silence the crowd. Even when he’s encouraged to come down from the cross…

He stays.

The God Who Stays

In a world where broken things are easily discarded, the cross tells a different story.

It shows us God doesn’t abandon the human story at its most painful point.

Not the places where we’ve missed the mark.

Not the places we wish we for do-overs or rewinds.

Not even the places we cannot fix.

Which means all those messy, unfinished places in our lives — the stained relationships, the conversations that never happened, the marks that remain — are not places God avoids or walks away from.

He stays.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life are you carrying something that cannot be repaired — at least not by you?

An Invitation: Today may not be a day to solve it. Instead, it may simply be a day to sit honestly with it. Name the broken place. Acknowledge where the mark was missed. And focus on how the Good Friday story illustrates the lengths to which God will go to show us we are not abandoned.

Because sometimes faith isn’t about fixing what is broken, it’s about trusting that we are not alone in it.

Like the coffee-stained shirt I pulled from the wash, we must acknowledge that, while the mark is still there, grace has not walked away from us because of it.

With you in the clearing,

Coming Sunday: The story is not over.

Working through this Lint-y season and arriving here at the last Wednesday before the beginning of Holy Week, I’m reminded that there are some things that don’t go in the regular wash.

They’re marked clearly: Hand wash only. Do not wring. Do not twist.

Because they require different handling, we slow down, fill the basin and add a little soap. It’s a gentle task of pressing the water through the fabric — not wringing, not forcing.

And once those delicates are clean they don’t get thrown in the dryer, instead they drip dry or lay flat to dry….in the open air.

More Harm Than Good?

For weeks now, there’s been work to do and maintenance to tend to. We’ve been busy clearing lint trips, hidden corners, and clogged vents. We’ve practiced repair and loosened our grip. Refocused our aim after missing the mark.

But as Lent draws down it’s important to remember that not everything responds to agitation. Not everything improves under heat. Not everything needs to spin at high speed. There comes a point when effort softens into restraint.

Hand-washing garments take time. Handle them too roughly and they stretch and lose their shape. There are all sorts of things in life that feel delicate — strained relationships, tenuous truces, fragile feelings. Times when we can’t wring out resolution or speed the drying.

Maybe that’s why Isaiah reminds us that He doesn’t break a bruised reed or snuff out a smoldering wick? Perhaps our rush to jump in and fix things might do more harm than good.

Sometimes the best option — the only option — is to wait.

And that’s okay.

What Cannot Be Rushed

There is a moment in washing delicates when your hands are still. The basin is empty, the garment is laid out to dry on a towel, and there’s nothing left to do…but wait.

We’ve done what we can, apologized where possible, and released what needed releasing. And those things that might still be damp? Let them be damp. And we wait because some parts of life must move at their own pace.

That’s where we are now, and Holy Week approaches at a deliberate pace, not in a rush.

As the Gospel story moves toward Jerusalem, there is a noticeable slowing and strength in that restraint, and Lent asks us to stop the clearing and doing, and instead slow down, handle life gently, and be fully present.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: What’s in your life right now that requires gentler handling? What’s something you can’t force into resolution?

An Invitation: What would your life look like this week if you shifted from fixing to tending with steady, patient care.

Because some things cannot be rushed.

Some things must dry in open air in their own time.

With you in the clearing,

Next: Holy Week arrives soon — the strange week when celebration and sorrow sit side by side.

After spending the last couple of weeks writing about my adventure behind my dryer (do I live an exciting life or what?), I’ve been thinking about cleaning, especially since the season is officially turning to spring.

When I know someone is coming over, I clean differently. Who cares about lint and a stuffed dryer vent?! Company means it’s time keep up appearances. Vacuum up the couch crumbs and plump the pillows. Shine the stove top and scrub last night’s toothpaste out of the bathroom sink. Use a spritz of Pine-Sol as air fresher to convey “hey, this house is clean!” to all who enter.

But when no one is coming? That’s the time for all the quiet maintenance no one sees or notices. Cleaning the lint vent and vacuuming behind the dryer. Wiping the spilled coffee grounds from the pantry shelf. Sorting and tossing what’s broken or no longer belongs.

There’s a difference between cleaning for appearance and cleaning for health. Sometimes I wonder how often we treat emotional cleaning the same way.

After Missing the Mark

A while ago I mentioned ἁμαρτία (hamartia) — “missing the mark” — aiming for love or kindness or generosity but landing short.

The ways we fall short may be obvious to us as we feel the sharpness of our words. Other times we’re blissfully oblivious to the pain we’ve caused others. Whether we recognize those moments of not, those missed marks cause small shifts in the space around us. The air itself changes and warmth bleeds away, leaving a chill in its place.

Lent has us focus on where we miss the mark, but there’s also a sneaky temptation to turn repair into performance. The confession reminds us why we feel justified in acting as we did. Visible superficial changes in our behavior make us feel better about ourselves, just like the Pharisee in the temple who made a show of his prayer.

It’s like when we make a big production of wiping the counters because company is coming.

Real Repair

Real repair is often quiet and costly. Repairing relationships requires us to quietly lower the bow and admit we missed what we strove for. It costs the self-righteous image we have of ourselves.

Because that kind of honesty feels vulnerable, it’s easier to remain silent.

But week by week, as we draw ever closer to Holy Week, the path Jesus walks — a path we, too, are called to walk this Lenten season — turns steep and narrow.

It’s a path that leaves no room for posturing or protecting the carefully constructed images we have of ourselves.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Where in your life have you missed the mark with someone — not catastrophically, but quietly?

An Invitation: What would it look like to practice repair without performance this week? To clean out the emotion drawers and just make room? To maybe even make room for forgiving ourselves?

Because despite our best efforts we do — all of us — miss the mark. Because if you’re like me, some days feel like nothing but missing the mark! Which means we need to aim again.

Let’s try to make peace with the idea that repair isn’t a one-time thing — but ongoing work. It’s the willingness to wake each morning and reach for the cross we carry, to be willing to try again, and again.

Without turning the process into a stage performance.

With you in the clearing,

Next week: Some things can’t be forced. Sometimes the wisest thing to do is handle life more gently.

Spelunking for that lost sock wasn’t as simple as reaching down and picking it up. It was also about noticing what was hidden behind the dryer. But no biggie, right? Just grab the vacuum and suck it all up! Presto!

Well….maybe not so much.

In my eagerness to get things cleared away in the laundry room, I banged the crevice tool into the dryer vent line and…I said WORDS! I said many WORDS!

Turns out there’s a big difference between clearing the lint trap and clearing the vent line. The lint trap is superficial — easy to reach, expected. Even the junk on the floor behind the dryer isn’t such a big deal.

But the vent line? That’s altogether another story, one that’s compacted, layered, and older than you think. Upon beginning to clear it, I realized something uncomfortable: this stuff has been here for a long time.

Lent and Letting Go

Not all accumulation begins as a problem. Some of it starts innocently enough as protection. We learn to stay quiet because speaking up has cost us. We maintain a bit of a sharp edge because softness feels unsafe. Control those details because chaos is overwhelming. Withdraw because being abandoned hurts.

These coping strategies work for a while. They keep us steady, help us survive, and serve as a kind of emotional insulation. But after a while, sometimes what once kept us safe now keeps us stuck.

Which brings up the harder question: What am I holding onto that no longer serves the person I want to become? The better version of myself!

And Lent is still here, pressing gently on the places we’ve grown accustomed to. To what’s accumulated. To what’s hiding out in the corners. To what’s clogging the vents.

This is where clearing begins to hurt. Because letting go is rarely theoretical.

When Clearing Feels Like Loss

Sometimes release feels like losing an old, familiar part of ourselves. We’ve been carrying the weight so long it hurts to put it down and stand upright.

If I’m not the one who fixes things, who am I? If I’m not the strong one, the steady one, the responsible one, who am I? If I’m not the doormat who always goes along to get along, who am I? If I’m not the one doing the heavy lifting in this friendship, who am I?

Letting go of an identity — even a constricting one — can feel disorienting. But just like the dryer vent — it’s hard to be the best versions of ourselves if we’re filled to overflowing with what best belongs to yesterday, not today.

Clearing isn’t erasing ourselves, but it is honing away what doesn’t belong. And sometimes the process of divesting is painful.

The Harder Way

The deeper we move into Lent, the more we see Jesus deliberately choosing the narrowing path.

Consider how Jesus doesn’t shout a defense of himself from the rooftops. He’s not wrestling for control. He avoids forced outcomes. Instead, the Lenten story allows space for misunderstanding, abandonment, and loss.

And there’s a resilient strength in the restraint — there’s courage in the winnowing.

Lent invites us into a smaller version of that same courage. How can we clear? How do we narrow our own paths? How do we loosen our grip on the habits that no longer fit who we are becoming?

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: What are you holding tightly right now — a habit, a posture, an identity — that once protected you but may now be restricting you?

An Invitation: This week, what would one small act of release or loosening your grip look like?

Because it’s possible to offer an apology without an explanation. Because it’s okay to allow someone else to have the last word or admit you were wrong without adding a “but.” Because you can surrender the facade of being “the reasonable one.” Because it’s okay to wish someone well and then walk away.

Sometimes this kind of clearing stings, and it doesn’t always feel triumphant. Sometimes clearing costs pride or feels impossibly tender. But it also moves you one step closer to being the person you most want to be.

With you in the clearing,

Next week: Repair is rarely dramatic — but it may be the bravest work we do.

A couple of weeks ago, I dropped a sock behind the dryer.

No big thing — just one of those ordinary mishaps — the kind that happens when you’re switching loads too quickly and trying to do three things at once.

But there it was. A single dark khaki sock, sucked into the black hole between the machine and the wall. One half of my only pair of dark khaki dress socks.

So I did what any determined woman does: I went sock spelunking! I crawled on top of the dryer to see how far my sock had fallen. Did it land on the dryer vent hose (hopefully!) so I could reach it easily? Or had it fallen all the way to the floor?

Yup — all the way to the floor! And that’s when I saw it.

No, not just my sock, but another sock (this one plain white), a vintage bullet pencil, and a long lost dryer ball, along with dust, spiderwebs, and lint. A gray layer that had quietly gathered where no one was looking.

Bleech!

It would have been easier to leave the sock back there and pretend it didn’t matter. After all, it was just one sock. But sometimes it’s the small, ordinary inconveniences that reveal what’s been quietly building up.

What Don’t We Notice? Search Me?

Lent has a way of encouraging us to gently pull the machine away from the wall. It asks us to look at what’s been quietly collecting.

Not the obvious things or big mistakes, but the small patterns. The tone we use when we’re tired. The way we silently rehearse arguments in our heads. The “uh-huh” habit while we scroll on our phones .

These aren’t headlines — they’re corners. And most of the time, they don’t feel urgent enough to examine. But what’s hidden there? Search me?

Search me?

“Search me, O God, and know my heart.”

This line from Psalms isn’t a demand for punishment or performative, self-indulgent guilty. It’s curiosity.

• Search me — I wonder what’s there.

• Search me — help me see those blind spots.

• Search me — guide me to find the things about myself that I miss.

Because sometimes the things we miss are the very things shaping our relationships.

Soft Patterns and Sharp Edges

The hidden accumulation of some life lint is subtle: the need to be right, wanting to be liked, assuming our way is the reasonable way.

These habits formed slowly; they didn’t announce themselves. And they certainly feel normal. But over time, these habits become their own limitations.

And then there are the moments that are harder to name. Like the comment that landed sharper than we intended, the way we withdraw affection when we feel hurt, or the way we subtly punish someone with silence.

Whether it’s a soft pattern or a sharp edge, it’s easy to gaslight ourselves:

• “I didn’t mean it.”

• “I was just tired.”

• “I overreacted.”

Maybe all of that is true; maybe none of it.

But Lent calls us to persist, to ask the pesky question: where were there moments I missed the mark? When I aimed for love but landed somewhere short of it?

When We Miss the Mark

Later in this season, we’ll talk more about the word we often translate as “sin.” But even now, it’s helpful to remember that the Greek word ἁμαρτία (hamartia) simply means “missing the mark.”

It’s an archery term. Draw the bow. Aim. Release. And sometimes the arrows of our words and deeds don’t land where they were supposed to. They miss the mark. We mean to be patient, kind, and gentle…. but sometimes we aren’t. That’s the human condition, and it’s cause for awareness, not despair.

It means taking the time to pull that metaphorical dryer away from the wall, even though it isn’t convenient. It takes effort to step into that narrow space and see what’s collected.

Lent may be less about dramatic sacrifice and more about this kind of honest maintenance.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Is there a pattern in your life that has been quietly collecting — something subtle that affects how you show up with others?

An Invitation: This week, instead of defending it or dismissing it, what would it look like to simply notice it? No public confession or dramatic overhaul. Just a small, honest acknowledgment.

Because sometimes the first act of repair is awareness. And sometimes it begins with something as ordinary as pulling the machine away from the wall and reaching for what’s fallen out of sight.

With you in the clearing,

Next week: Clearing what has gathered can be harder than noticing it.

Thanks for reading Gina Prosch Writes, a reader-supported publication! This post is public so feel free to share it. And to receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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Not long ago, we bought new towels. The thick, fluffy kind that feel like a small upgrade in life. I washed them before using them, of course, and when I opened the dryer afterward, the lint trap was packed!

I cleaned it out, ran the towels through the wash again, and still — even more lint! Crazy clouds of feathery fuzz filled the trap each time, but that wasn’t a defect in the towels. It was part of becoming usable.

Some seasons of life are like new towels: they shed more.

Whether it’s a new job or new relationship, a new baby and new responsibility, or a new diagnosis or a new loss — transitions tend to throw off lint.

And here we are in Lent — a season that doesn’t rush in with solutions, but asks us to pay attention. Lent takes the familiar and makes it strange.

Lent asks us to notice

• What’s falling away naturally?

• What are we deliberately giving up for a time?

• What are we casting aside forever?

When Lent enters our lives each winter — we are invited into deeper reflection.

What’s Clogging the Vents?

A dryer clogged with lint doesn’t stop working immediately. It just runs hotter with less efficiency and more strain. Lent has us pull out our emotional lint filters out and hold them up to the light.

When we move through heavy seasons — especially new ones — the shedding increases. If we don’t pause to clear what’s falling away, it gathers.

Lent gives us space — forty days of intentional noticing — to prevent spiritual overheating.

Lent follows the same basic process as clearing a lint filter: pull it out, peel back the fibers, toss them aside, and slide it back in.

Lent acts as a season of maintenance. A defined stretch of weeks when we, just like the Psalmist, can intentionally pray “Create in me a clean heart, O God.”

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: Are you in a “new towels” season right now? Are you shedding more than usual? And if so, exactly what has this season shaken loose in you?

An Invitation: Instead of criticizing yourself for the extra lint, what if you simply ask for help creating a clean heart?

When new towels throw off lint, they aren’t falling apart — they’re settling in. And as we move through Lent with honesty and intention, we aren’t necessarily breaking down — we may simply be becoming.

With you in the clearing,

Next week: Sometimes what’s hiding in the corners matters more than what we see every day.

Thanks for reading Gina Prosch Writes, a reader-supported publication! This post is public so feel free to share it. And to receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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At the beginning of this Lenten season, I’m beginning a small series of reflections about emotional resilience, ordinary life, and the strange wisdom that can be found in the most mundane places — even the laundry room.

Over the next several weeks, we’ll follow the thread of lint, laundry, and the quiet work of clearing what accumulates in our lives. Along the way we’ll talk about the ways we miss the mark, the small work of repair, the gentleness required for fragile things, and the hope that waits on the other side of Good Friday.

Think of it as a slow walk through Lent — one load of laundry at a time.

When I was little, I thought the liturgical season of Lent was called Lint.

They sounded the same to me, and since I had very little experience with liturgical seasons but a great deal of experience with laundry and lint, my brain did what brains do — it filled in the blanks.

Lint, the soft gray fuzz that magically appears along with every load of laundry, made sense — Lent did not.

After all, at that time, laundry was an all-day affair at our house with a wringer washer and a clothesline in the yard. And at the end of the day, any lint stuck on the clothes required a lint brush.

So, when adults at church talked about “the season of Lent,” I assumed it must have something to do with spring cleaning.

Years later, I’m not entirely sure I was wrong.

Dust and Breath

Ash Wednesday meditates on these words from Genesis: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

It’s a stark sentence. Not decorative. Not sentimental. But not weaponized either — at least I don’t think it’s intended to be.

It’s grounding…like dust itself.

We human beings might think we’re all that, but in truth, we are quite fragile. Absolutely finite. Made of earth and breath.

And what strikes me now is lint is dust, too.

Lint is what remains after something has been worn and moved and tumbled through water and heat. It’s the tiny fibers released from fabric in motion. It’s evidence that something has lived, rubbed against the world, and been changed by those interactions.

Isn’t that true of us all? We move through weeks and months and years brushing up against deadlines, disappointments, traffic lights, arguments, obligations. We shed things like patience, illusions, and old identities. We accumulate other things along the way, things like resentment, hurry, distraction, and fatigue.

None of it particularly dramatic. Just the daily grind, the ordinary cares.

And just enough to gather quietly in the corners.

What Accumulates

When I pull the lint trap out of my dryer, those little bits and pieces don’t look dangerous. But ignored, lint accumulates. Left alone, lint restricts airflow and traps heat.

Wait long enough, and all those tiny little bits and pieces can become combustible.

That image feels true to me as an adult, and I wonder: what sorts of things gather in us when we don’t notice?

Small irritations? Unspoken grief? Low-grade anxiety? Comparison? The steady hum of “not enough, not enough, not enough”?

Life lint doesn’t announce itself. It just collects.

And then there’s Lent.

Lent Is Not a Weapon

At its best, Lent is not spiritual performance art or grand public self-denial. Rather, Lent is about noticing what has accumulated.

Not to shame ourselves. Not to wield religion like a measuring stick or a bat. But to allow us room to breathe again.

Again — and I need to say this plainly — Lent is not a weapon!

Yet too often, Christianity is used like a club by people ready to swing their certainty like a weapon if you don’t agree, don’t conform, or don’t measure up.

I’ve certainly been on the receiving end of that sort of Christianity, and I’m living with the after-effects of “religious concussion.”

But Ash Wednesday is not a raised fist.

It’s an open palm, marked with ash. The message of Ash Wednesday isn’t “do better or else,” it’s “you are human.” And what a relief that is!

Ashes on the forehead don’t accuse; they level, equalize, and balance.

Dust to dust. All of us.

No hierarchy.

No superiority.

No one immune to shedding.

A Question and an Invitation

A Question: As we embark on this Lenten season, what dust has been gathering quietly in the corners of your life?

Not necessarily dramatically or catastrophically….just a steady pressure.

An Invitation: What might it look like to clear a small space this week — not out of guilt, but out of kindness toward yourself?

You don’t have to overhaul your life. You don’t have to prove anything. Just notice — breathe — and begin.

If you choose to “give something up,” keep a steady focus on the fact that we need to give things up in order to make room for other things we value.

Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent isn’t here to beat us into submission. It’s purpose is reminding us we are human. And human beings are allowed to begin again.

With you in the clearing,

Next week: What’s clogging the vents?

Thanks for reading Gina Prosch Writes, a reader-supported publication! This post is public so feel free to share it. And to receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a subscriber.

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Each year, around the first of February, we watch the movie Groundhog Day.

My husband and I saw it years ago when it first came out. I remember thinking it was cute and funny — a clever romantic comedy with a fantasy twist.

After years and years away from the film, we thought our son (who happens to love groundhog) w…

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Can you believe it? January 31st…already!??

We’re far enough into the year now that the confetti has been swept away, and I’ve already got coffee stains on my crisp white 2026 calendar. The bright, shiny sense of “new” has softened into ordinary time, and 2026 has had just enough time to show me a little of what it’s going to be.

Mid-Missouri got socked w…

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One word to return to.
One word to steady me.
One word to hold up like a compass when the year inevitably bends and twists.

Last year, my word was adventure, and it turned out to be exactly right. When I picked the word, I was thinking about the the year as …

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Hello friends,

We did it! The waiting is over, and tonight is Christmas Eve, a night holy and full of meaning.

But as I sit here writing in the soft glow of a “not quite Christmas Eve” evening, I return to the question that’s been whispering through this whole Advent season:

What are we waiting for?

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Hello friends,

Here we are in the fourth week of Advent and only a few short days until Christmas Eve.

Today we have four lights glowing and growing brighter against the early winter dark, and this week’s candle is Love.

Hope taught us to light the candle before the dawn.
Peace taught us to breathe in the in-between.
Joy taught us to use the good stuff — no…

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Hello friends,

This third week in Advent, the candle is pink!

It’s the Shepherd’s Sunday, the Sunday of Joy, the bright, unexpected splash of color right in the middle of the deep blues and purples of waiting. Joy arrives in the season not because everything is perfect, but because even in the waiting, there is something to celebrate.

It’s the reminder we…

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Hello friends,

Last week we lit the first candle — the light of Hope, flickering quietly at the edge of winter. This week, we turn to the second candle of Advent: Peace.

Peace is a tender word. A quiet word. A word we often imagine arriving only after the work is done, after the chaos settles, after everything is calm and orderly.

But that’s not where peac…

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Hello friends,

Welcome to Advent!!

I do love the Christmas season, but when I was a kid, the season of Advent seemed such a long wait until we got to “the good stuff.” The music at church was kinda sorta Christmassy…but not really. We were still a few miles outside of the little town of Bethlehem, the herald angels were still warming up, and first noels w…

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Hello friends!

Over the past few weeks, we’ve been stitching together the pieces of resilience:

• Joy — the bright colors.

• Hope — the next stitches.

• Love — the warm blanket meant for sharing.

• Peace — the rhythm that steadies us.

Today, let’s spread out the whole thing out and take a look at what happens when we bring these pieces together.

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Hello friends,

So far, we’ve pieced together three squares of resilience:

• Joy — the bright fabrics.

• Hope — the next stitch.

• Love — the thing meant for sharing.

This week, we come to the final square: peace.

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Hello friends,

So far, our resilience quilt has is gaining strength as we stitch together this patchwork from life’s scraps:

• Joy — the bright fabrics that change everything.

• Hope — the next stitch that keeps us moving forward.

This week, we turn to love.

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