A Season of Lint: Hidden in the Corners
March 4, 2026
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.
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