Frances Pierson Landro

A Life Well Lived; A Crown Well Won

How do you capture 87 years of love in mere words? How do you distill a lifetime of faithful service, infectious joy, and transforming grace into a single tribute? The truth is, you can’t—but we can try to honor the remarkable woman who shaped us all.

Frances Pierson Landro was born on February 16, 1938, in Chicago, Illinois, to John and Pauline Pierson, as the world still reeled under the long shadow of the Great Depression. From those humble beginnings emerged a woman whose 87 years would blaze a trail of love, laughter, and unwavering faith—a beacon of hope who understood that the greatest wealth lies not in what we possess, but in whom we love and how we serve.

From her days as a nursing student at West Suburban Hospital School of Nursing, associated with Wheaton College—where a young Billy Graham walked the same halls of their shared youth group—Frances knew she was called to heal. When her junior-high sweetheart Robert Landro wrote to her father asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage, Grandpa responded with characteristic family humor—mailing back a gag rubber hand with a note asking whether he also wanted the rest. That rubber hand became part of family lore, a perfect preview of the joy and laughter that would define Frances and Robert’s life together.

After being part of a church plant in the Chicago suburbs, they moved their young family from Chicago’s crime and tornados to the Arizona desert. There they launched a vibrant children’s ministry that became their lifelong calling, transforming themselves into the beloved clown personas Uncle Willy and Silly Lilly. Behind the greasepaint and red noses, Frances and Robert brought the gospel to life through children’s laughter, proving that the joy of the Lord could indeed be their strength—and the children’s delight.

What wisdom she possessed! While others might have worried about keeping teenagers in line, Mom made our home the place everyone wanted to be. Pop Shoppe sodas, the latest video games, warm hugs at the door, and the quiet gift of trust—she’d greet our friends warmly, then disappear into her room to give us the gift of privacy. She didn’t just raise three children and a dozen foster kids—she shepherded souls to Christ, including friends who came for fun and found salvation. She even led our brother’s wife to Jesus.

An obstetric nurse who rose to hospital management, she once had the privilege of sitting vigil beside Nancy Reagan as her father lived his final months at Scottsdale Memorial Hospital. Yet her greatest management was always the household of love she built, where prayer was as constant as breathing. Even in her final days at the memory care facility, the staff remembered her as a woman who was always praying with the other residents.

Even in loss, she poured out. When Dad went home to glory, Mom transformed her grief into a grief-share ministry, walking alongside others through valleys she knew intimately. She raised up leaders to continue what she began, serving faithfully until her body could no longer keep pace with her willing spirit. Her final years were spent in our sister’s home, surrounded by family, until her needs required additional care. She then moved to a nearby memory care facility, where family visited her daily, ensuring she was never alone.

Though dementia gradually obscured the brilliant mind we knew, love remained untouched. Even toward the end, she would sometimes remember her children when they visited, and with pride introduced “my child” to the nurse attendant—proof that love endures even when memory fades. The woman was still there.

On December 15, 2025, in Vista, California, Frances quietly stepped from time into eternity.

And now—oh, what joy—Mom has gone home for Christmas. Her mind is restored, sharp and clear as mountain air. She is reunited with Dad, her beloved, dancing in the presence of the King they served so faithfully. The woman who brought heaven to earth through clown noses and prayer meetings now experiences heaven itself—whole, free, and radiantly alive.

We weep because we miss her. We rejoice because we know where she is. One day—perhaps at Christmas—we will celebrate together again, this time around heaven’s table, where there are no goodbyes, only endless hellos.

She ran her race.

She kept the faith.

She finished well.

And now she wears her crown, waiting for her children to join the celebration that never ends.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

Well done, Mom.

Save us a seat at the feast.