This Feels Familiar
By Anne Henegar
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Editor’s Note: We’ve been quarantined, locked down, and obliged to forego in-person worship. And like never before, we’ve come to see the hope of our faith in unexpected places. In a special section of our Summer issue, 10 of our brothers and sisters reflect on the thoughts that have come to their minds.  

Here, Anne Hennegar of Atlanta Westside Presbyterian Church, shares some of her experience.

I feel strangely prepared for this pandemic. It’s all miserable, of course, but it’s not entirely new. Chronic illness, grief, and years in local church ministry have acquainted me with restrictive, persistent, indefinite suffering. Like doctors and nurses, experienced sufferers have developed a skillset that can help comfort and equip the church.

What I’ve Learned From Chronic Illness

I’ve battled five autoimmune illnesses for 25 years, spending countless hours in hospitals and doctors’ offices. When my illness first hit, my pastor said it’s easier to fight Goliath than to walk in the valley, because you know when Goliath is dead. He was right. The valley has been longer and darker than I ever expected, but I know the One who is with me. I’m used to long journeys of lament and pickaxing my way to a new normal.

I’m convinced that God wastes none of our pain. Nothing’s on His editing floor. We will emerge from this wilderness. We will be refined and redefined. Everything is different, yet we’re living in the same old, old story. Surely, He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.

What I’ve Learned From Grief

Bodies matter. I miss the three-dimensional faces of our people the way I ache for my mom’s nurturing touch or her ready smile, the way I miss my dad’s footfall on the stairs and his enveloping hugs. I know that nanosecond when you open your morning eyes, and your new reality sinks in, and grief rebreaks your heart. I’ve been at the end of myself and had to plod on for umpteen more weeks anyway, emotions fluctuating hourly.

My mother died three years ago after an 18-year battle with cancer. One of my “grief tasks” from my beloved counselor is to work my way through the contents of Mom’s iPad. I found a surprising treasure in her dictionary app. Her heavenly transformation was mapped across the words she searched for: Chemotherapy. Steadfast. Liberty. Fear. Iniquity. Mortify. Seraphim. Hilarity. Immanence. Holy. Maelstrom. Hosanna. Sanctify. Consummate. Glory. Though wasting away, she was being transformed day by day.

What I’ve Learned from Local Church Ministry

My husband Walter and I planted our church together 13 years ago. I serve full time on staff, and he is the senior pastor. We’ve long felt like EMTs who are first on the scene: Triage. Bandage. Transport. Repeat.

Multiple members have tested positive for COVID-19. Half a dozen have lost parents or grandparents, with limited ability to gather and grieve. Singles’ homes are extra echo-y, especially on Sundays. Parents are constantly barraged by needs, with no break in sight. Employers furlough beloved employees to save beloved businesses. Many of us feel pressure to compare how we are “crushing” quarantine. Some people who suffer with anxiety and depression have reported relief: Their internal world is being externally validated.

Charles Spurgeon once said, “Who can bear the weight of souls without sometimes sinking in the dust?” We’re extra dusty right now. Our focus is shot. Our souls feel halved, but the needs have doubled. My husband says we are more isolated and less insulated.

All roads can’t lead through us. We’ll bottleneck it for sure. We have to let the body function like a body. It’s OK if we don’t know what we’re doing; we’ve never done this before. We pour grace over each other’s heads like oil dripping from Aaron’s beard.

Tethered to Jesus

David Powlison has been a huge influence on me. Years ago I spoke to him at a conference, and he asked about my health. I said I felt like a dog on a chain that’s been corkscrewed into the ground. My health had improved enough to add a few more links, so I was thankful I could at least look around the corner of the house. David kindly asked if he could correct my analogy. “You’re not corkscrewed to the ground,” he said. “You’re tied around His waist. He wants you close.”

These days, we all know what it feels like to be tethered. Whatever the future brings, let us not forget the One to whom we are bound.


Anne Henegar serves on the staff of Atlanta Westside Presbyterian Church.

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