Observing Ash Wednesday as a Family: Simple Ways to Keep It Sacred

Ash Wednesday comes softly. No fireworks. No parades. Just dust on your skin and a whisper in your heart: Remember.

Remember who you are. Remember who He is. Remember that life is fleeting, yet love is eternal. That all the things we chase, hoard, and build will one day crumble, and we will be left with only this—our soul, bare before God.

"You are dust, and to dust you shall return." The words press into the skin, into the heart. And for a moment, the world quiets.

How do we hold onto this quiet? How do we let it linger—not just in a moment, but in the days, the weeks, the entire season ahead? Maybe we start small. Maybe we let it seep into the spaces of our home, our conversations, our shared meals. Maybe, as a family, we don’t just observe Lent. Maybe we live it.

The Weight of Ashes, The Weight of Grace

There’s something humbling about the touch of ashes. It is both a burden and a gift. A reminder of our smallness, our sin, our need.

In the Old Testament, when people repented, they didn’t just whisper a prayer and move on. They tore their clothes. They wept. They sat in ashes. They let their sorrow be seen, felt, known.

Job, in the depth of his suffering, cried out, “I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:6). The people of Nineveh, even their king, fell on their knees and covered themselves in sackcloth when they heard Jonah’s warning (Jonah 3:5-6).

Repentance was not quiet. It was loud—not in sound, but in the soul.

And yet, God’s mercy was always louder.

What if we let our family experience that contrast? The weight of sin, yes—but also the weight of grace. The staggering, undeserved, boundless mercy of a God who always welcomes us home.

Maybe this looks like setting aside a moment after church, after the ashes, to sit together. No distractions. Just hearts open, words spoken—about what we carry, what we want to lay down, what we long to change.

And then, after the heaviness, let there be lightness. A prayer of gratitude. A moment of joy. Because repentance is not about shame. It’s about returning.

A Meal That Tastes Like Hunger

Ash Wednesday is a day of fasting. But maybe fasting is not just about eating less. Maybe it’s about feeling the hunger. Sitting in it. Recognizing the deeper hunger beneath—the one food cannot touch.

Jesus fasted for forty days in the wilderness. Forty days of emptiness, of aching, of facing down the tempter. And still, He stood firm. “Man shall not live by bread alone,” He said (Matthew 4:4).

So maybe tonight, dinner is quiet. Simple. A meal without indulgence. A bowl of soup. A slice of bread. Nothing more.

And maybe, as the hunger gnaws, we ask: What are we truly hungry for?

Not just in our bodies, but in our souls.

What have we been filling ourselves with that does not satisfy? What distractions, what excess, what noise? What would it mean to let go—to clear space, to empty ourselves so God can fill us?

And then, maybe, we end the meal with something sweet. Just a bite. Just enough to remember that fasting is not forever. That resurrection is coming. That this story does not end in ashes, but in glory.

Carrying Lent Into the Ordinary

Lent is not a grand gesture. It is not a single act, a single sacrifice. It is the slow, steady turning of the heart.

So how do we bring it into the fabric of daily life?

Maybe it’s a candle that stays lit in the evening, a reminder of the light that guides us through the wilderness.

Maybe it’s a jar on the table, where each night, each person writes one small act of love they did that day—because Lent is not just about giving something up, but about pouring something out.

Maybe it’s a whispered prayer at bedtime, a question: Where did you see God today?

Maybe it’s silence. More of it. Less screens, less noise, less hurry. More space to listen.

Lent is not meant to be exhausting. It is not meant to be a checklist, a burden, a thing to be performed. It is a journey. A homecoming. A slow, deliberate step closer to God.

When Children Ask ‘Why?’

Children have a way of seeing things we miss. Their questions can be so simple yet so piercing.

"Why do we get ashes on our heads?"

"Why can’t we eat what we want today?"

"Why does Jesus have to die?"

And maybe we fumble for answers, trying to explain theology to a child with wide eyes and an open heart. But maybe the answer is simpler than we think. Maybe we don’t have to explain it all. Maybe we just have to show them.

Show them what it means to pause, to reflect, to make space for God.

Show them that Ash Wednesday is not about punishment, but about love.

Show them that sacrifice is not about losing, but about making room for something greater.

And if they still don’t understand? If they still ask why?

Maybe we say, Because love asks us to remember.

And maybe, someday, they will.

The Invitation of Ash Wednesday

"Yet even now," declares the Lord, "return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning." (Joel 2:12)

Even now.

Even if you have been distant. Even if your prayers have been hollow. Even if you have doubted, or wrestled, or turned away.

Even now, He calls you back.

So as a family, as you walk through this season, let it be more than habit. More than ritual. Let it be real. Let it shape you, change you, soften you.

Because the ashes may fade, but the grace they mark? That stays. That lingers. That leads us, always, home.

💛 The Salt & Light Family