“So check these out,” Landon said as he dropped a huge bucket full of water pistols in our front entry. He was in college and a youth pastor so that naturally equated to always having a big bucket of water guns, Frisbees in the trunk of his car, ice blocks ready for the riding down a hill, hiking boots ready for anything except a trail, etc. With Landon, fun = adventure. And adventure = outside of the box. Outside of the box = some form of danger. And sometimes danger = breaking the rules. And sometimes breaking the rules = having a water gun game fight in your parents house while they’re out to dinner.
We shut off all the lights and five of us (our older, more responsible sister had moved away for a few years) quickly mapped out the game rules for the evening. Two hours later the house and walls were soaked and Desiree was found cowering in the shower with her cat.
“It’s scary!” she wailed when we asked what the heck she was doing in there. Poor girl.
Sometime before that, when Landon first started working at the church, I woke up in the night to my oldest sister demanding that my brother’s friend tell her what had happened.
“Daniel—tell me what happened. Yes, my parents are here but just tell me,” she said urgently into the phone.
Lindsey’s eyes filled up with tears. “Landon’s dead,” she cried.
WHAT?!
He wasn’t dead—but he should have been.
“What was he doing on the roof of a building?” my dad growled into the phone. “Are you kidding me?”
See, just a day or so before Landon had taken Lindsey and I frisbee golfing downtown. As in, throwing Frisbees at various buildings and getting points for hitting them, or touching a light post, or whatever. Lindsey had thrown her Frisbee on the roof of a building with an exterior made up of large, uneven sandstone bricks. She lamented her loss but Landon assured her he would get her another Frisbee (he’d just purchased us super-duper aerodynamic Frisbees) orrrr he would get her THAT Frisbee back.
Landon rock climbs and always has. Since he was a baby. When we lived in Colorado our parents would pull over on the side of the road (so they say) and let little toddler Landon out to go climb on some very large, craggy rocks. Instead of finding him on the swings of a swing set, my mother says, she would find him ATOP a swing set. As in the bar faaaarrr above the ground—just smiling contentedly.
So when Lindsey lost her Frisbee Landon decided to climb the exterior of the building one night and get it back for her. Yes. Climb the several storied building like Spider Man. Without the sticky safety net.
He made it to the top of the building but just as he reached over the top he discovered that the edge was slippery and sloped. His hand lost its grasp and he tumbled down onto a dumpster and then onto the cement.
And survived. To go on another adventure, another day.
Because for Landon, living is almost always synonymous with loving people. Sometimes loving people for him meant taking care of them—being the protector, the gift-giver, the epitome of the perfect older brother. Sometimes one of the best ways he knows how to love people, is to have adventures with them. Even if it means breaking a few rules here and there. Or breaking parts of his body.
We shut off all the lights and five of us (our older, more responsible sister had moved away for a few years) quickly mapped out the game rules for the evening. Two hours later the house and walls were soaked and Desiree was found cowering in the shower with her cat.
“It’s scary!” she wailed when we asked what the heck she was doing in there. Poor girl.
Sometime before that, when Landon first started working at the church, I woke up in the night to my oldest sister demanding that my brother’s friend tell her what had happened.
“Daniel—tell me what happened. Yes, my parents are here but just tell me,” she said urgently into the phone.
Lindsey’s eyes filled up with tears. “Landon’s dead,” she cried.
WHAT?!
He wasn’t dead—but he should have been.
“What was he doing on the roof of a building?” my dad growled into the phone. “Are you kidding me?”
See, just a day or so before Landon had taken Lindsey and I frisbee golfing downtown. As in, throwing Frisbees at various buildings and getting points for hitting them, or touching a light post, or whatever. Lindsey had thrown her Frisbee on the roof of a building with an exterior made up of large, uneven sandstone bricks. She lamented her loss but Landon assured her he would get her another Frisbee (he’d just purchased us super-duper aerodynamic Frisbees) orrrr he would get her THAT Frisbee back.
Landon rock climbs and always has. Since he was a baby. When we lived in Colorado our parents would pull over on the side of the road (so they say) and let little toddler Landon out to go climb on some very large, craggy rocks. Instead of finding him on the swings of a swing set, my mother says, she would find him ATOP a swing set. As in the bar faaaarrr above the ground—just smiling contentedly.
So when Lindsey lost her Frisbee Landon decided to climb the exterior of the building one night and get it back for her. Yes. Climb the several storied building like Spider Man. Without the sticky safety net.
He made it to the top of the building but just as he reached over the top he discovered that the edge was slippery and sloped. His hand lost its grasp and he tumbled down onto a dumpster and then onto the cement.
And survived. To go on another adventure, another day.
Because for Landon, living is almost always synonymous with loving people. Sometimes loving people for him meant taking care of them—being the protector, the gift-giver, the epitome of the perfect older brother. Sometimes one of the best ways he knows how to love people, is to have adventures with them. Even if it means breaking a few rules here and there. Or breaking parts of his body.
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