A Season of Lint: Reflections on Ash Wednesday
February 18, 2026
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?
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P.S. I read it aloud to Robert.
This is excellent! 💯 % truth.
Thank you. 🙏 🤗