Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Vaccine Update

Ten years ago, I was involved in a Vaccine safety trial for an experimental vaccine for Ebola. It did not result in a successful vaccine.  The NIH Vaccine Research Center has begun recruiting for a new study, which I just received yesterday.

Here are the details of the Study (including the criteria for being a volunteer).

No, there is no risk of exposure to Ebola.

The total compensation is about $1750 for nine or ten visits to Bethesda.

If you can, sign up, it's worth it!

Monday, November 10, 2014

Claymores - an Elegiac Poem

People hold still after a death.  Inside of every minute, little claymores hide, waiting to detonate.

When I see a train, or hear a train horn from across the town.  When I even imagine a train, the rhythmic clatter as it goes by, my breath stops.  I think of him stepping in front of one.

When an actor pretends to be (or is) high.  When they’re accurate, it’s harrowing and tragic.  When they’re lampooning, it’s infuriating.  Same with mental illness. And suicide.

Whenever a character in a show is in AA and talks recovery, or when a parent gets a death notification from the police, or when someone sees a loved one in the morgue or at the funeral.

When someone jokes about being delusional, or quotes Han Solo from “Return of the Jedi.”

When I hear music sung.  When I sing.  I hear the echo of his magnificent voice, and sob.

When I see a 20-year old boy.  When a missionary comes home.  Or leaves.  

When the kids do a chore without complaining, because holy cow, did he complain a lot.

When we have granola (which he loved), tomato soup (hated), or cheese (loved).

When we laugh.

When another bill collector calls, so I write down their number to fax his death certificate.

When it is quiet.

When I hear the theme music to the original Mario Brothers. Remember when Max made that his ring tone? In High School, he’d forget his cell phone, I’d call it just to make it ring, and chuckle.

When we see a movie, or quote trivia, or tell a joke, or recycle that last basket of his old clothes that no one will ever wear again by taking it to Goodwill, and I leave it in my trunk so I can take it back inside to look at again, smell it again just one more time, just once.

Grenades of ache exploding in my heart.

Wednesday, September 03, 2014

Sun Days

The day after Maxwell died, we found two "suns" taped to our back door window.

Jennilyn caught the anonymous neighbor almost immediately, but didn't share who it was.

For four weeks, every morning, we were greeted with another sun, another quote/comment/excerpt.  Some were very religious, some were silly, some were philosophical.  I didn't keep track of their order, though you can find the hand-written first one, way down at the bottom of the pictures.

Some days, I'd come home from work, and walk past all of the cheery suns.  But most days, I'd stop, read the new one, look back at some of the others.  I would pause a moment to soak up the smiley illustrations with the real surges of grief still churning around me.  Like turning my face to the warmth of sunshine while standing with my feet in the cold ocean.  Even today, almost two months later, when I read through the quotes, I feel myself start to tear up. 

Actually, when I start to drift into despair, and feel disconsolate, I've come back to these little suns, and read them.  Especially while listening to our favorite song find from Brother-in-law Bob, it has been an ongoing balm.

It was a beautiful act of love and kindness.  It was consistent, simple, earnest, true.

We are grateful for all of the outreach we've received.  It has all helped.

It still hurts to have Max be gone.  But every sunrise is another reason to smile.  Even if the sunrise is taped to our back door.

Thank you.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Two Photos from Bear Lake

There is nothing in the whole world as satisfying as putting a fussy baby to sleep.  I know, I *remember* the fatigue of caring for infants from when my children were small.  But boy, do I feel nostalgic for it.  This photo was from one of my personal highlights at the Bear Lake reunion, getting grumpy Evan Babcock to relax and doze.  I put my hat on him, and sat down with my back to sun so he wouldn't get sunburned.  Thanks Mike and Sarah for letting me flex my Grandpa muscles!

A huge success!  This was the 2-liter bottle rocket launcher the Smiths brought, and a great action shot by Jen Babcock of Roxie Jane launcher her rocket. I'm getting one for Christmas!

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

An Open Letter to Matt Walsh Regarding His Assertion that Suicide Is a Choice

In summary, Matt, you are wrong.

Now, there are a lot of people that think you (Matt Walsh) are wrong, all the time.  But that is often because they disagree with your principles of religion, spirituality, and morality.

I disagree with your conclusions, not your principles.  I think your vision on suicide is too narrow, and you have missed the mark.  I think you have a responsibility to speak from a position of great influence with more care and nuance, and to better represent the spiritually-based life.

You state, over and over again in your article, that suicide is a choice.  That Robin Williams chose to do this to himself.  I ask, how can you *possibly* know that?

Surely you recognize, as a student of human nature (both biological and spiritual) that a person's behavior is never just one thing.  Yes, YES, we have responsibility for the actions we elect.  I am certain of that.  But we also inhabit a complex system of influences.  Genetics, culture, family, history, chemistry, whimsy, temptation.  To presume that any person can look at another's choice, and conclude how much of the choice was personal agency, and how much was external factors is ... ludicrous.  We, individually, can only ever truly be certain of what we, individually are responsible for choosing.  Only we can know our own guilt.

I suspect that you feel some obligation to speak out, a cautionary voice  to warn anyone who is feeling suicidal.  I imagine that you think expressing sympathy or sorrow for Robin Williams will somehow encourage or enable someone who's depressed, as you say, it will be "the last straw."  The specter of copycat suicides is a horrific worry that everyone is always aware of at a time like this.  As a culture, we are empowered to judge behavior as acceptable, or as not acceptable.  Suicide is something we should judge as unacceptable.  And you are right to speak out against turning the conversation into a complete abnegation of personal responsibility on the part of the person who attempts suicide.  We, as a culture, as a race, must be unequivocal that Suicide is wrong.

But in your effort to speak out, you have assumed knowledge you cannot possibly possess.  You assert that making suicide analogous to other causes of death (beyond the control of the suffering) somehow steals hope.

Hogwash.  This is not like coddling a vandal, or a thief.  You aren't going to spark a cultural shift towards suicide if you express sorrow or sympathy for someone who has committed suicide.  It is like the public forgiving of an addict, the embracing of someone who is anorexic.  People suffering with conditions so severe that they might contemplate suicide, they *NEED* to be able to surrender the burden of the suffocating pain.  They need to know it is *NOT* something they are in control of, and *NOT* something they will be judged for feeling, so they can get help.  From the outside, from others.  Yes, it is critical that as a culture we do not praise the choice to suicide, that we condemn the act and plead with any contemplating it to choose life.  But it is the act we condemn, not the actor.  Love the sinner, hate the sin; when condemning an immoral behavior, we should always frame the condemnation in the abstract, not label specific people as examples of the immoral behavior.

It is hypocrisy for you to accuse people of looking for an easy answer when they ascribe suicide to factors beyond the control of the suicidal, when you yourself are guilty of doing exactly that.  You have erred in the opposite direction, though.  And while people who write off suicide as being completely beyond the control of the person are wrong, at least they are erring on the side of compassion for the dead.  You are erring on the side of the stern, the judgmental.  By declaring suicide to be ONLY the choice of the suicidal, you discount as non-existent (or as non-meaningful) the stunning array of factors outside of the control of the suicidal.  Let me quote you;

"I don’t understand how theists, who acknowledge the existence of the soul, think they can draw some clear line of distinction between the body and the soul, and declare unequivocally that depression is rooted in one but not the other."
How can *YOU* declare that depression is *ONLY* rooted in the soul?  Your standard of joy, of choosing life, of not electing self-destruction, that is all laudable, and I agree with them!  But I am certain, on behalf of those who suffer from depression (and the family members who collaterally bear that burden), you have done great harm in expressing such a thoughtless opinion, so lacking nuance and understanding.

No one admires Robin Williams for his death.  I don't think anyone in this public dialog is asserting that someone who commits suicide has NO choice in the behavior.  But when they express sorrow for the event, they are expressing a compassionate uncertainty of HOW MUCH choice he had, and attempting to comfort the people left behind.

Shame on you for using such a public forum to judge another human being when you have neither the authority or information to justify your opinion.  Your tone, your judgmental stance, your repeated insistence on framing Robin Williams' death as a cruel choice he is alone responsible for, embodies much that the non-religious find despicable about the religious. Where is your compassion for the suffering?  How is heaping judgment (which, again, I insist you cannot possible have enough information to render) on someone who is gone bringing greater joy into the world?

It doesn't matter what percentage of depression's cause is spiritual, what percentage is chemical.  The answer is the same.  People who are suffering, they need to feel joy, have friends, be medicated, get counseling, seek God, feel connected, choose life.  They need the full spectrum of possibility, help and hope to have a chance of combating the black hole of depression.  And they need those possibilities to be offered in an atmosphere of tolerance, respect, and welcome.  An invitation, lacking judgment.

When someone reaches the end of their mental and spiritual rope, they are no longer rational.  I agree with your statements that we are meant for life, and for joy.  But I sincerely believe that if a spiritually-minded person read your blog while they were depressed, they would feel judged for contemplating suicide.  And that's not helping them.

If someone is contemplating suicide, or any kind of self-harm, they should call the hotline (1-800-273-8255).  I have an open, standing invitation to all who might feel that way to call me personally. 

Sunday, August 10, 2014

My Remarks on the Passing of My Son Maxwell

My son, Maxwell Defiance Landbeck, was killed early the morning of July 13, 2014.  I’ve written about Max before, about our troubles.  This post is my effort to make sense of his death.  To find personal context and peace with it, to see the meaning in our loss and grief.  It is comprised mostly of the remarks I gave at his memorial service, though I've included a few passages from the eulogy his sister read (the entire eulogy is here).

    “Grief is the natural by-product of love. One cannot selflessly love another person and not grieve at their suffering or death. The only way to avoid grief would be to not experience the love; and it is the love that gives life its richness and meaning.”

A little over two years ago, Max was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder.  In the months prior to that, he struggled with substance abuse.  It is now obvious he was self-medicating.  The burden of bi-polar disorder is swinging between depressive and manic episodes. For Max, when he was Manic, he would become delusional. Delusions of different realities, grandiose visions and fantasies. He was never violent, but pursued his bizarre notions no matter how strange or dangerous.

When Max would use drugs, even marijuana, he became even more delusional.  But he sought out bizarre drugs, custom hallucinogens, spice, gleefully experimenting with substances that were not technically illegal.  During these years, family and friends tried to help him, offering him a place to live if he promised to quit for good. Max was easy to love, but difficult to live with.  Addiction is a terrible burden. He could not resist the draw of trying drugs one more time. Each time Max was certain that it would help.  Each time he was terribly wrong.

In the very early morning of Sunday, July 13 Max was struck by a freight train and killed instantly.

In the days since Maxwell’s death, when I would share the story of how he died, sympathetic listeners would sometimes ask, “Why?”  I am sure they wanted me to know that their thoughts are with us as we struggle to understand what happened.  But I also suspect that they want to know who to blame.  They want to know who *we* blame.

Did we blame the people who gave him drugs?  Did we blame him?  Or the train?  Did we think he was suicidal or delusional?

I need to explain something important, and to do it, I am going to tell a story about Max and me.  A frequent conflict we had was about blame.  Specifically, fault; as in, whose fault something was.  Who to blame?  Whenever something happened, and Max was involved, he’d acknowledge that he shared *SOME* of the blame.  But he would insist, with prosecutorial certainty, that since it wasn't *ALL* his fault, it could therefore not be proven that it was *ANY* of his fault.  Even as a first grader, he already had an intuitive grasp of contributory negligence as a factor in sentencing.

I am certain that Max was wrong about that.  This vision of fault or blame, it’s not true.  It’s a distraction, a feint to excuse yourself from accepting your portion of the blame.  With Max, I came up with a metaphor to teach him my concept of blame or fault; it’s what I call the "Pie" theory of blame.  P-I-E, not mathematical pi.

When something bad happens, the fault for it can be divided into pieces, sometimes into dozens of slices.  As far as I am concerned, it doesn’t matter how many other people or factors are involved, it doesn’t matter how big those “slices” are relative to each other.  Every piece of the pie, every slice, they are *all* responsible. It’s not just the biggest slice of the pie. I wanted Max to understand and take responsibility for each choice he made, however complex the motivation behind those choices, no matter how contributing the circumstances around his choices.

And I understand that as people, we have an instinctive desire to reduce things to a single cause or a single concept, a lowest common denominator.  It is easier to feel like we are in control, like our efforts can affect the outcome, if we are fighting *one* thing.  It is especially comforting if we can affix the blame to some external force, some other person.  But life is complex.  Individual people are complex.  If we could see ourselves with complete honesty and accuracy, we would see that each of our choices is prompted by many, sometimes dozens of different motives. Sometimes our own motives conflict with other motives!  Trying to narrow the cause to one thing is impossible.

My point is that we get lost on the cause, the slices, how the pie divides up.  We lose sight of the consequence of action when we focus on the cause of action.  “Cause” is an equation we can almost never solve.  We are ultimately the sum of our choices, NOT the things that motivate our choices.

So instead of focusing on the why of his death, looking for someone to blame, we've looked instead at the consequences.  Max's death is many things at once.  It was the tragic end of a troubled life.  It was the result of mental illness. It was the byproduct of profound dysfunction resulting from drug abuse.  But his life is also many things, many of them great successes.  He repeatedly triumphed over the despair of relapse, trying again and again to stay sober.  He used his native gift for music and singing to bring joy to hundreds of people this year alone, thousands over the course of his life.  He loved his family, and he was loved by us.

For the rest of my remarks to make sense, it’s important that you understand a couple of my fundamental beliefs.  I believe in God.  I know that each person existed spiritually before they were born.  That belief isn’t just a metaphor that seeks to mystically capture the connectedness of us all, it is very literal.  I know that God is a real being, a literal spiritual father to all of us on the earth.  I know that we all existed spiritually before coming to the earth, and that we are here, on the earth, on purpose.

Anyone that knows me personally knows that I am very committed to the civic process of allowing all to believe whatever they believe. I talk often about the civic distance, the polite fiction of a space where everyone might be right, everyone might be wrong.  I’m going to set aside that buffer and not use my usual caveats.  I need you read this like everything I am saying is the Truth.

 Like I said, I know God is real.  And we are on the earth on purpose.  We are here to:
*get a body
*make and keep covenants with God
*make choices with imperfect knowledge and total freedom, earning the consequences (both immediate and eternal) of those choices
*form and nurture relationships that will last into eternity

If you were born, that’s the “get a body” part.  For Max, purpose one has been met, another way that Max’s life can be viewed as a success; he was, like all of you are, HERE; he got a body!  But like I said, I see Max’s life as both success and failure.  A jumble of both.

I think most of us acknowledge that "jumbled" nature of our life.  We succeed and fail.  But just like with Max’s death, I think most people want to know *WHY* we fail.  Why do we make mistakes, why do we do wrong?

All the caused can be neatly divided into two categories.  First there are personal flaws.  Our weakness can hobble us in succeeding.  We have to strive to overcome our own selfish, or proud, or lazy nature.  But second, we also have to bear the temptations of an adversary, Satan. There is a popular image in our culture of the devil being some kind of honorable opponent, a gentleman with whom we can bargain, even outsmart.  That’s not true.  He has no rules.  He wants us to fail, and that’s *all* he wants.

Of the four earthly purposes I listed, any of those purposes that Satan thwarts, he counts as a victory.  When he separates us from our families, when we disobey, when he fosters disbelief, or when he causes us to despair and do nothing, those are all victories for Satan.

So, which is it, weakness or Satan, that make us fail?  Which was it with Max?  Was it temptation or personal flaws?  I have to be plain, it doesn’t matter why we fail.  It doesn’t matter why we go awry.  It doesn't matter why Max failed, why he stepped in front of that train.  As far as I can discern, in all of our failures, BOTH things are present, weakness and temptation.  So, like with fault, it doesn’t matter which “slice” is bigger.  I think when we got lost in the argument, that’s another way Satan wins.  We get so caught up in trying to figure out who to blame, we stop taking responsibility for our choices and stop trying to be good.

Because what matters is how we act and what we choose.  We have the power to shrug off both temptation and weakness.  One of the great blessings of this life that we have is agency, the power we have to make choices.  And the sum of Max’s choices in life is that he is gone.  I can’t tell you if it was the drugs or his bi-polar disorder.  I don't know if he meant to hurt himself, or if he was delusional.  We’re never going to know the answer to that question here.

But the time he had on the earth to make choices, to learn, and to live with us, and to love us is over.

Now I know Max’s spirit still exists.  All of his memories his experience, his personality, charm, playfulness, talent, quirks, the things that made him loveable, the things that made him maddening, that’s still there.  Max is still “alive”.

But one of the purposes of our earth–life is for us to form and PERFECT relationships that will last into eternity.  Lucy Mack Smith said, “We must cherish one another, watch over one another, comfort one another, and gain instruction that we may all sit down in heaven together.” It takes a lifetime to hammer out a relationship with someone else that can last into the eternities.  And for now, Max is lost to us.

When my doorbell rang, I knew it was bad news about Max.  I quickly came to realize that I had a responsibility to explain his life and death, to give context for what both mean.  I am pleading with you, with all the urgent grief of a bereaved parent, to learn the lessons of my and Maxwell’s life.

I want you listen to four things now.

Number one; don’t use drugs or alcohol.  Ever.  Don’t read this and smugly shrug off the histrionics of another "Just Say No" parent lecture.  Don't think to yourself that you have an exception, a good reason, a new study, or a new law. I want to be the unequivocal voice in your ear for the rest of your life, drugs are bad. Period.  When you use, you thwart a purpose for being on the earth.  It distances you from the people who love you, it distances you from the people that you love.  It impedes your ability to choose, to act, and to serve.  It dulls your faculties.  It harms the body that you have been blessed with.  It harms you. I’m begging you now to stop it.  That there is time, we are all still here.  Stop it, and make the world a better place.  Make yourself better.  If you’ve been trying to quit, keep trying.  If you’ve relapsed, quit again!

Now, that was a pretty heavy lecture that's obviously about Max and his choices.  Number two is entirely about my failing.  Avoid contention.  I consider it one of the great failures of my adult life that, especially with my son Max, I often allowed my certainty to lead me to verbal hostility when I'm right.  It is inevitable that each of us will be right about something, and then be confronted by someone else who is COMPLETELY wrong.  It is tempting to demand, "What were you thinking?!" or, "How many times have I told you?!" in such situations.  I hope it is obvious I am describing the conflict I had with Max; I was right, and he was completely wrong.  He was SO wrong about his choices, that it killed him.  But I can testify in hindsight, that my self-righteousness, my unswerving and indignant reciting of standards I knew would keep Max safe, did no good.  It put distance between us.  My certainty that he was wrong did not excuse the anger, and the hostility, and the contention that I created.  I am grateful that my wife taught me this lesson in recent years, that peaceful love is a better response to disobedience.  I was working on this with Max, trying to rebuild, trying to be less critical.  It is possible to have an absolute moral standard, and NOT be angry.  I lost YEARS of time with Max, just arguing with him, and yes, he loved arguing.   But just like I wouldn’t let Max redirect the blame to others, I cannot shift the blame for this failure.  *I* engaged every single time he threw down that gauntlet.  So I challenge you, when confronted with conflicts, especially within your family, state matter-of-factly your standard, gently ask kind-hearted questions, and act with compassion when your loved ones choose the wrong thing.

The third thing, and this is important, is do not despair.  Despair is a tool of the adversary, whether you believe in Satan or the thermodynamic concept of entropy.  Especially do not despair to suicide.  Whatever you’ve done wrong, whatever horrors you’ve experienced, whatever failures or burdens you carry, whatever burdens you have set upon other people, no matter what they are, I can promise you; you need to be here.  You must keep trying.  You must keep acting.  If you ever doubt that, if you ever reach that point where you feel there is nothing left, you call me.  And I will find you, and I will give you the relentless hug that I can’t give my son.

The fourth thing I want to leave you with is the challenge to seek the will of God, and obey it.  The great burden of choice in this life is that you will fail, and fail often, and you will be held accountable for each of those failures.  But the great gift of mortal life is that you can try again. And again.  And again.  You can be forgiven.  No matter how wrong you have been, you are still alive, and you must try again to be right.

I ask that you look to Max as both an example to be emulated, and an object lesson of what happens when you make the mistakes he made.  He failed, and he succeeded.  For all of us, every day is both failure and success, both things at once. We fail, because we do not achieve the standard of goodness or perfection that God instructs. But we are also victorious, because we keep trying again no matter how many times we fail.  In trying, we conquer evil, we conquer temptation, and our own weakness.

Do not be discouraged by your own failings.  Find courage and motivation in the fact that Max succeeded *and* failed.  Keep trying.  Be more obedient to God’s will, seek earnestly to know it.  Turn away from the despair that threatens to engulf you.  Seek a more peaceful path with those around you.  And be sober.

As a favor to me and my family, I would ask is that if you have a moment of success, where one of those things happens, where you avoid an argument, where you choose life, you choose sobriety, please share that story with me.  Every time someone shares something with me about Max, every time I can talk a little about him, I’m pursuing my relationship with him.  He might be gone, but I am still here, and I can still make myself better, love him better.

I know that I’ve made the covenants that will allow Max to be my son forever.  My life’s pursuit from here out is to live worthy of those covenants so I can be with him and his brothers and sisters, and my wife.  I know what I am saying is true.  And it’s not just a reflexive response to grief.  I knew these things were true before anything happened to Max. 

Thank you for your attention, your thoughts, and your prayers on our behalf.  We have been comforted and strengthened by it.

I miss him.  I love him.  We are going to be OK.

Friday, August 08, 2014

Maxwell's Eulogy

Eulogy for Maxwell Defiance Landbeck
July 25, 1993 - July 13, 2014
Read at his memorial service, July 25, 2014 by his sister, Emmalyn Landbeck Ritchie,

In 1993, Maxwell Defiance Landbeck was born to Jennilyn Babcock Landbeck and John Stewart Landbeck, III, Brigham Young University students.  Their graduation pictures include him as a 3 week-old baby in their arms.  

The first thing you need to know about Max is that he barged his way into our family.  Our parents were earnest about being parents. They were willing to have many children, but purposefully intended to have five kids, spaced out relatively evenly.  Stewart and I were almost exactly two years apart, so it was a huge indignant shock that Jennilyn found herself pregnant again, with Max, only seven months after baby # 2.

We believe that each person existed as a spirit before they were born. Coming to earth to be part of a family is an important part of God’s Plan for each of us.  We don’t know how families come together or the whys of timing. His parents know that Max belonged in our family and that he picked us specifically, knowing what mortality held for him. He knew the difficulties he would encounter, and chose to come anyway.

If Max picked his parents, they at least got to pick his birthday:  Concerned with how big he was getting, the doctor suggested he should be induced a week early.  July 24th is Pioneer Day, a
Utah holiday to honor the Mormon Pioneers. Mom wanted to see the parades and fireworks. And honestly, she didn't want to miss her extended family at a big fish fry that afternoon, either.  So July 25th was chosen. 

Maxwell Defiance Landbeck was born in Payson, Utah, at Mountain View Hospital.  He was a healthy 9 lbs 9 1/2 ounces, 21 1/2 inches. He had long, silky white blond hair.  Max grew to 6 feet 1 inch, 217 lbs. with dark hair and a reddish blond beard.

His initials spelled out MDL, which he thought was hilarious, since he was one of the middle children, surrounded by siblings:  older sister Emmalyn and brother Stewart; younger siblings Suzanna, Samuel, and Roxie. 

Max loved word games and wordplay. He insisted that his Dentist Appointments be scheduled for 2:30. (Point to teeth)  Tooth.  Hurty.

Everyone asks about his name:  His older brother inherited John Stewart Landbeck IV, a strong name.  So, what do you name the 2nd born son?  The name Maxwell comes from Mormon Apostle Elder Neal A. Maxwell, a firm and eloquent speaker his parents admired. Maxwell was also the first name of one of John's favorite missionary companions.

In the 1800's people named children for characteristics the parents hoped the child would emulate.  Charity, Providence, Faith, and so on.  The middle name Defiance comes from the notion of defying expectations, defying wicked or evil influence.  From Genesis:  "For God having sworn that every one ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood should have power, by faith, to break mountains, to divide the seas, to dry up the waters, to turn them out of the their course: To put at Defiance the armies of nations, to divide the earth, to break every band, to stand in the presence of God; to do all things according to his will, according to his command…and this by the will of the Son of God which was from before the foundation of the world.”

In Max’s baby blessing his Dad said:  "We give him a blessing that he will understand what his name means; that the things he should defy in this world, are those things which are ungodly, those things which pretend to be true but are not…"

Before he was a year old his family moved from Utah to Havre de Grace, Maryland. Max attended pre-K through second grade in Meadowvale Elementary, exactly ten steps from his front door.  After we moved to Forest Hill, in fourth grade Max had to pick a music-related class. With characteristic stubbornness Max resisted all options that involved home practice. So, chorus it was!

Max was contrary and Max was charming.  Once, in a church children’s class taught by his Aunt Sara, he crossed the line once too often by refusing to stay in his seat.  His Aunt gently threatened to take him out and let his Dad punish him.  Without slowing down, Max crossed the room, took his Aunt’s face in his six-year old hands, and crooned, “Oh Auntie Sara, I just wanted to get a closer look at your beautiful blue eyes.”

School boundaries changed and Max was shifted back and forth from North Harford to Southampton Middle School three times in three years. Max’s Southampton choral teacher, Mrs. Louise Ballard, noted his talent for singing, and recommended he audition for the Maryland State Boychoir.

Mom drove him down to an audition in Baltimore one Saturday in the Fall of
2006.  Max protested nervously all the way that he didn't want to do this, getting angrier and more nervous right up until he walked through the audition doors.  He sang "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and after that the hymn was his go-to audition piece.

Max was awarded a position in the Tour Choir, for his beautiful tenor voice.  To his great consternation, he was almost immediately required to perform with them on a local TV special.  Our family still has it saved on a TiVo.

Julia Mattson, a fellow MSB mom said, "He spent a third of his life with the choir.  I remember talking with Max about Boychoir and seeing his face light up saying ‘I love those guys-they're some of the best people I've ever known-and I know I am a better person for being a part of it.’"  As his voice got deeper and deeper into the bass range, he moved into the Changed Voice Choir. 

His family moved to Aberdeen where Max graduated with the class of 2011. 

He toured China with the Deer Creek Chorale, and travelled to Bermuda, Canada, and dozens of American States with the Maryland State Boychoir.  He sang with his school, All-County and All-state choirs.  In college, Max sang with the BYU Men’s Chorus.  He performed on-stage at Aberdeen High School as Daddy Warbucks in Annie. He shaved his head for months and practiced looking boorish and rich. He did not need to practice the soft heart. 

Max was proud of his work with the Harford Community College Phoenix Theater in “Evita,” and especially proud of his recent part in the barbershop quartet in “The Music Man.”

Max broke more things than most teen-aged boys.  He broke every bike he ever rode.  And not just snapping off reflectors, Max crashed into trees, cracked axles, bent handles.  He melted the blade on one of Mom’s favorite kitchen knives trying to pry something out of an electric socket.  He broke a friend’s van door, trying to make it close faster.  Once, he broke a ceramic dish while doing the dishes, and carefully cleaned up all the broken pieces. Unfortunately Dad emptied that bag of garbage, a piece stuck out and sliced Dad’s middle finger and hand, leading to a dozen stitches. 

He became notorious for things breaking, sometimes just by being nearby. He leaned against a wall in the building where the Boychoir practices, and a section of plaster fell down.  Max was holding a hamster and the tail fell off! After that the Konstans did not let Max touch any of their pets. Max loved animals.

Maxwell had a scoundrel’s sense of adventure, but was an absolutely terrible liar. He never got away with anything. Max once successfully snuck fireworks into our house and then (air quotes) “accidentally” lit them in our basement. In. His. Hands. This lead to not just the first but also the second of many emergency room visits.

When told he was not allowed to eat food in his room, he snuck some down anyway.  Max brought an entire yellow onion downstairs, which he ate like an apple, and was caught by his obvious onion breath.

Once, Dad refused to buy him a particular candy. Later, when he was caught eating the candy, Max insisted that a boy choir friend (whose name he immediately forgot) just happened to give him that *exact* candy.

Max loved to play. He tried cross county running team, for a day.  Tried wrestling like his older brother, for exactly one day. But quit when he threw up after his first match.

He was however a champion Rubik’s-Cube puzzle solver.  He could twist and turn and consistently finish the puzzle in under two minutes.  Once he stood on stage with Emily Perry Canady to demonstrate their solving skills.  Then, as the music swelled, they gracefully traded cubes by tossing them to each other.  Max won the contest, but it’s likely because Emily had thoughtfully oiled her cube so it would spin easily, while Max’s was terribly gummy and tough to turn.

Max would never characterize himself as “lazy” but rather as “efficient.”  Why should he fold and put away clean laundry, when it works perfectly well to leave it in the basket, and wear it from there?

He was always the last one to show up. If HE was early, then he would waste HIS time waiting for everyone else.  During the months leading up to the performance of “The Music Man” the quartet was nicknamed “Where’s Max?” because when it was time to practice, they had to track Max down.

He could be very childlike. He loved little kids, jumping on the trampoline with them, watching movies with them, making funny voices with them.

Max loved to fish with his Grandpa Landbeck.  Max loved high adventure with the scouts. Once instead of riding his bike he was TOWED on a broken bike.

He liked audio books better than hard copies. 

Max learned to make homemade granola, and cinnamon rolls.  He learned how to make homemade spaghetti sauce, which he regretted, as he became the family’s official spaghetti maker.

It was hard to take pictures of Max. He would play to the camera with funny faces. But ironically, Max insisted that he hated to do solos. The solos we have of him singing are precious. We are grateful that he sang "Martha" by Tom Waits accompanied by Jeremy Harvey at a church talent show, and “When You Say Nothing at All” in his freshman year at North Harford. Even if getting him to do these solos took some convincing. We are incredibly grateful for the footage we have of him singing from “The Music Man” and love that he would turn and sing right to the camera.

Maxwell loved to argue, loved to be right.  He was happy to debate anyone about anything. He would do anything to keep the argument going, switch subjects, make up facts, and demand proof of others. 

He always had poor impulse control, which made him both likely to break things, and liable to be the first to volunteer whenever someone needed help.  He helped move a million people in and out of their homes as part of the Landbeck muscle men. He helped Daryl Leonetti decorate Havre de Grace and Aberdeen for Christmas, and entertained dozens of people by wearing his “Blue Man Suit” on Halloween.

For any who don’t know, a little over three years ago, Max was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder.  In the previous year, he had begun to struggle with substance abuse.  It is now obvious he was self-medicating.  The burden of bi-polar disorder is swinging between depressive and manic episodes. 

For Max, when he was Manic, he would become delusional. Delusions of a different realities with grandiose visions and fantasies. He was never violent, but pursued the bizarre notions that would occur to him, no matter how strange or dangerous.

When Max would use drugs, any drugs, he became even more delusional.  Many friends and family tried to help him. Max was easy to love, but difficult to live with.  Addiction is a terrible burden. He could not resist the draw of trying drugs one more time. Each time Max was certain that it would help.  Each time he was terribly wrong. He spent many months living in a sober half-way house, where he hoped to be able to eliminate the drug-use from the equation.  

This year, it seemed his effort was beginning to succeed.  He was admitted to a residential treatment program where he could concentrate on both sobriety and mental stability.  Maxwell was sober for most of 2014, earning his four month coin and relapsing only once. He navigated the demanding practice schedule for performing in “The Music Man,” something he was immensely proud of, and we were too.

The day before Max died, Saturday July 12, was his little sister’s birthday.  He spent the afternoon at our family’s home, with his Grandparents and Great-grandma Billie.  He had cake, sang “Happy Birthday” with our second verse. Max hugged and kissed everyone, saying “I love you” just like he always did. He teased his little sister until he got scolded for poking her.  He had plans to join Mom at a Boychoir concert the next day, and have dinner with his family Sunday night with the Wainwrights.  He put in his Birthday meal request for his favorite birthday food – Pad Thai for dinner and chocolate cake with pistachio pudding frosting.  He arranged to attend an “Ironbirds” baseball game with his Grandma Sandy and Grandpa John, taking his little brother Sam and little sister Roxie Jane with him.

That normal birthday Max was planning never happened. Today Max would have turned 21. 

Later the 12th, Max became delusional.  He began sending strange texts to friends and family.  In the very early morning of Sunday, July 13, Max left his home and walked 4 blocks to the Amtrak line in Aberdeen.  He was killed instantly by a freight train. 

We miss him so much.  We love Max so much.  We have heard regrets from many people, who have wondered if only they had called him back, or stayed in touch, or reached out again.

Maxwell’s life has been saved many times by the love, attention, friendship, and care of hundreds of people these last few years. 

We ask that you remember what was best about Max. Learn the lessons of his mistakes.  If you could have done more, do it now. Serve the people that are still here.  We all need friends. We all need to be loved.

Maxwell was our brother, our son, and our friend.  We are grateful that he now rests in peace.