In Memorial

Just over a week ago, we lost a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, and a friend. Betty Roark Batliner passed away peacefully, in the company of her two children and other family members. She is survived by her two children and their spouses, along with 6 grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren.

Betty was a tough, smart, hard-working woman. She knew what she wanted, and she pursued it with all that she had.

Betty was born here in Kansas City in 1918, and she graduated from East High School. At the tender age of 21 she married William J. Batliner, not too long before he would serve overseas in World War II. In the 40s, she worked for TWA Airlines, with the chief responsibility of hiring flight attendants. Later she would join the J.C. Nichols Company of Kansas City, where among other things she was involved in the development of Prairie Village. In 1965 she and her husband started Batliner Paper Stock Company, which they ran for 26 years. She was a devoted wife and mother, often working diligently behind-the-scenes to support her husband and family.

Those who knew Betty well knew that she was passionate about more than just her family and her work. She loved to dance. Ballroom dancing was something she pursued with the same vigor that she pursued everything else in her life, and eventually she excelled at it. Later in her life, it was a chief source of exercise for her. It helped her stay fit and active, and more importantly, it helped do what she could to fight off the realities of growing older.

Knowing all of this about Betty, it strikes me that we gather this morning with a complexity of thoughts, feelings, and memories—many of which we may not be able to resolve. We to look at such an accomplished life and very appropriately we want to celebrate it. We rightfully want to honor a woman who did so much, and touched so many. Many of you are living examples of the impact that Betty had on her world. Others of you will carry on the memories of the impact you had on Betty—especially the youngest of her grandchildren, who brightened up even her last days merely by their presence.

And yet, we feel loss. Certainly, she will live on in our memories, and in the impact she had on us, but she is no longer with us as she once was. Some may feel the loss of not being able to say what they needed to say to Betty. Others may not have heard from her what they wanted to hear her say. Everything is different now—and for many of us, it may not even seem real yet. You may find yourself missing Betty over the next days, weeks, and even months, in ways you never expected.

In the face of death, the Apostle Paul talks about this very tension that we feel, and he guides that we would “not grieve as others do, who have no hope.” Grief and Hope. He implies that we can grieve and yet have great hope.

This grief about which he speaks is not mere sadness, and certainly not self-pity. It is living with the profound understanding that our world is not as it should be. Vibrant, intelligent, and graceful women should not have to face the confusion and limitations of Alzheimer’s. Grandmothers should not have to sleep without ever waking up. And our relationships should not have to know the distances that we create between one another. It’s altogether right that we grieve, because we can more clearly see our final enemy: death itself.

But Hope is extended to us. God Himself did not leave us alone. The hope of which Paul speaks is the Hope that God Himself has conquered death because Jesus, His only Son, is

“the Resurrection and the life”

and that any who believe in Him will live. Through Him we can find life through hope. Through Jesus we are offered the hope that death need not be the last word on this life. And this is the hope with which Betty faced her final days—hope not in her accomplishments, not in her possessions, not in her efforts to stay young. But hope in the One who calls Himself “Life.”

In the face of this world, every corner of which hears the pieces of a once perfect mirror falling to the ground, we hear the promise that one day He will make all things new. Living with hope along-side deep grief is hearing and believing the words of Jesus, that He will

“wipe away every tear from their eyes,

and death shall be no more,

neither shall there be mourning

nor crying nor pain

anymore.”

Jesus offers to us hope.

Heeding the words of Paul, may we grieve. May we shed honest tears. May we allow the ache of loss to linger within us. And yet, may we also find Hope in HIM who alone is making all things new.

“So teach us to number our days

that we may get a heart of wisdom . . .

and establish the work of our hands”

"Come on poopies . . ."

Aside from the epidural and the disposable diaper, the greatest single invention in the realm of birthing and raising babies, must be the Diaper Genie. This thing is freaking amazing. With a flick of the wrist this little magic machine pipes out perfect little diaper sausages. And if you do it right, you can despose of the whole shebang without ever touching the diapers again. To quote those Guiness guys, "Brilliant!"

Apparently, nobody filled Lucy in on that little secret. Tonight after dinner, while my wife was changing Jack, Lucy came walking down the hallway saying "Come on poopies, let's go to the trash." She walked down the hallway with the poop train trailing closely behind her. I couldn't resist grabbing the camera, and here we are.

All in the name of helping out.

Growing Up.

My life is strange.

Well, okay, I'm probably far more normal than I'd like to admit. In any case, I'm not making that statement to complain. Only to make an observation. Something to ponder. Maybe even to dwell on. But definitely not to whine about.

What is strange today is the thought that many of friends are not my age. I have a few who are a bit older than me -- even older than my oldest brother. I trust them. They care for my family and me well. There are others, a worthy number, actually, who bear the burden of the dreaded title 'teenager'. Innocent and plain enough, for some reason I don't like that label. But that's who they are. I'm not sure why they talk to me, but they do. I listen to them. I walk with them. I speak honestly to them.

I would be amiss if I were to ignore the fact that I do have close friends--the closest, even-- who are my age. Some of them have jobs that are surprisingly similar to mine. One of the reasons we still talk to one another, I'm sure. And there are other friends, who for some strange reason, still talk to me even though we live far away and I'm not a great long-distance friend. Many of them are lacking in this too (as I believe they would admit), so that may be why we're still friends.

And some friends are moving somewhere far away, even though it's in the same time zone. I'm still pretty mixed about this one. But I'm optimistic that they'll still talk to me.

But, back to my point. It's strange having friends who are so much older, and so much younger than I am. I often feel like I'm living through my own teenage years all over again, and at the same time living through my own kids' teenage years long before they've arrived. Both re-living and living ahead makes from a short ride on a fast machine for my emotions. I rarely saw this before this summer, but now it's everywhere I look. The teenagers in my life grow up: they get jobs, they have serious relationships, and they go to college.

But all of this puts me in this strange place of feeling simultaneously 15, 19, 49, and even 32. Strange.

Wait. Did I have a point?