MMM Library: Triggers

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by Casey Peterson:

Recently as Mother's Day was approaching, I was asked what kind of flowers I was getting for my wife. It seems like this is a question that I get around Valentine’s, anniversaries, birthdays, Columbus Day, Cinco de Mayo, Arbor Day, etc. ahhhhhhh!

Flowers for me are an interesting paradox. I love growing them in my yard, love seeing them in the mountains or deserts, in fact I even know the Latin names of many of them. Yet, something about buying them just doesn’t appeal to me. I assumed for many years that the root (no pun intended) for my flower aversion came from either a financial or a safety perspective. Financial because they are terribly overpriced right when we need them most, and they wilt and die quickly, no matter how many little powder packets are sprinkled in the water. An average bouquet costs roughly the same as a rack of ribs, a pack of steaks, or something that can cheerfully be marinated, basted, and grilled. While using a modicum of money is convenient, true value is established when compared to the currency of barbeque, and flowers wilt in comparison.

Confession of an LDS Smoker

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by Casey Peterson:

Sunday as the church meeting I was sitting in was drawing near a conclusion, I began to get fidgety and anxious. I had trouble focusing on the words of the closing song, and at the final "amen" of the prayer, I bolted for the door with smoking on my mind. Upon taking care of business at home, I rushed back to church and slipped into my seat just as the next meeting was starting. I immediately was aghast as I realized the upturned noses, the sidelong glances, and the accusatory expressions of those whose senses had tipped them off to evidence of smoking. That day, it was ribs over mesquite chips, though I had debated about salmon over pine chips, or even a tri-tip over apple wood. The euphoria of slowly letting the smoking flavor permeate and tenderize the meat was a tantalizing temptation I had to fight through for the duration of my meetings.

The Word of Wisdom teaches us in Doctrine and Covenants89:12 that meat is "ordained for the use of man with thanksgiving; nevertheless they are to be used sparingly." I take that a couple of ways.  First, the better I can make my meat taste, the more thanksgiving I can have in my heart (and stomach). Second, if I am to quantify the amount "sparingly," that means eliminating marginal, tough, greasy, or tasteless varieties. I raise my own meat and enjoy knowing I am eating a healthy, organic, tender, and lean piece of meat that has been raised with thanksgiving, kindness, and appreciation. However, one of my former BYU students introduced me to smoking, a process of curing, tenderizing, and flavoring the meat in a beautiful way.  This was a startling revelation to me, as I usually detest strongly any smoke smell. I was the scout trying to avoid campfire smoke, and in a hurry to wash it off as soon as I got home. I abhor tobacco smoke; it literally will make me vomit faster than any other smell.  Smoking cigarettes was never a temptation or even a physical possibility for me ever in my life. And every year the part I dread most about working on my farm is the horrible smell of burning hair during branding. Simply put, I hate smoke of any kind.

Yet, the flavor and tenderness of smoked meat is undeniably delightful and delicious. I researched and purchased a smoker, and then found that smoking chips are available in a variety of flavors. Mesquite, hickory, apple, pine, cedar, or cherry wood all offer a different pungent flavoring. I researched which ones work best with which types of meat and love the mixing and matching that produces such wonderful results.

And so with my marinating brines to pre-soak the meat, with my racks in my smoker, and with a plethora of different types of wood chips to elevate my meat to a whole new level, I can proudly say with gratitude and thanksgiving in my heart and stomach that I am an active and honorable LDS smoker, obeying and honoring the Word of Wisdom the best way I can. I am part of a barbecue brotherhood extending from the asados of Argentina, to the barbacoa of Mexico, across the plains of Texas where my fellow MMM contributor Dustin serves as a ranger of the rotisserie.

Casey Peterson is the Director of the BYU Center for Service and Learning where he loves working with over 22,000 BYU students learning life lessons through service and volunteerism. Casey is completing his doctoral degree at BYU in Educational Leadership, which gives him the unique current status at BYU of being a student, teacher, and administrator. Casey is married with 5 beautiful children who stay busy through church, sports, and community activities along with their work on the small family farm they operate in Salem, Utah. Twitter: @cpeter1.
 Image credits: Dennis Skley, Kevin Dooley (used with permission).

Pie Personality Test 2.0 (Updated)

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by Casey Peterson:

Every year as I approach Thanksgiving, I am struck by the correlation of personality types to pie selections. Last year I published on MMM my Pie Personality Test 1.0. I received generally positive feedback, but also received several requests for other types of pie not represented. So with Thanksgiving approaching, I submit Pie Personality Test 2.0 for your reading pleasure.

You Are Apple Pie

You're the perfect combo of comforting and traditional.
You prefer things the way you've always known them.
You'll admit that you're old fashioned, and you don't see anything wrong with that.
Your tastes and preferences are classic. And classic never goes out of style.

Those who like you crave security.
People can rely on you to be true to yourself - and true to them.
You're loyal, trustworthy, and comfortable in your own skin.
And because of these qualities, you've definitely earned a lot of respect.

You Are Pumpkin Pie

You're the perfect combo of uniqueness and quality.
You're able to relate to many types of people with many different tastes.
But you're by no means generic or ordinary.
In fact, you're one of the most original people around.

Those who like you are looking for something (or someone) special.
You tend confuse people when they first meet you. But you're not as complicated as you seem.
Even though you have a lot of spice and flavor to you, you're never overpowering.
You are a calm and comforting force in people's lives.

You Are Cream Pie

You're the perfect combo of simplicity and divinity.
You are a secret hedonist. No one knows how indulgent you can be.
You don't indulge often, but when you do, you go for the best.
You have expensive taste - even if you aren't rich.

Those who like you live for understated pleasures. You're not flashy or trendy, but you have a depth that most people lack.
Interacting with you makes most people feel incredibly satisfied.
You are gentle, super sweet, and in harmony with those around you.

A Farmer's Take on Adversity

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Photo by Robert Couse-Baker

Saturday mornings in the fall are a bittersweet mix of beauty and busy. The weather is crisp and clear, the colors of fall foliage are breathtaking, a sense of urgency to prepare for winter is in the air, and the excitement of upcoming holidays is electric. But in contrast, sports seasons are overlapping, end of term school assignments are pouring in, and honey-do lists swell with left over summer projects that are compounded by fall and winter preparation tasks. I appreciate President Uchtdorf's insights from his talk Saints for All Seasons when he said:

"We have seasons in our lives as well. Some are warm and pleasant. Others are not. Some of the days in our lives are as beautiful as pictures in a calendar. And yet there are days and circumstances that cause heartache and may bring into our lives deep feelings of despair, resentment, and bitterness. I am sure at one time or another we have all thought it would be nice to take up residence in a land filled only with days of picture-perfect seasons and avoid the unpleasant times in between."

I had looked forward to my Saturday morning all week. My younger son had his first basketball game, I had cattle to move at my farm, fences to build, leaves to rake, garden and fruit tree harvests to complete, and a ward service project to roof a house. On top of that, I had purchased a new buck sheep to improve our herd that I needed to pick up, and I carefully planned the day. However, as perfect planning often happens, it started to unravel even before I started my day.

BUSY - Are you?

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

On a cool, clear, and quiet fall evening, I walked off the football field with my 7th grade son for the final time this season. Last game emotions are always enigmatic. There is a feeling of relief of not having five or six days each week committed to practices and games. There is allayment in escaping parental perceptions that their son didn't play enough, sometimes despite a disappointing attendance record at games and practices. And there is always great happiness in escaping a season without serious physical injury to any of the boys.

However, I also was filled with a great pride in how much each individual boy had improved in skills, abilities, and confidence. I was humbled and grateful for the feeling of teamwork and camaraderie that had encompassed the team throughout the year. I admired the great men who I was able to coach with, knowing their dedication and sacrifice to be with these boys. I was appreciative of each boy who left his comfort zone and overcame challenges to play a physical and a tough game. Some challenges were in stature, some in skill, some in ability to focus, and some in being assertive at a time in life where everything seems awkward. And the mere act of putting in the effort built respect and confidence individually and collectively.

With these juxtaposed emotions running through my mind and heart, I looked down at my son. A serious accident last year prohibited him from playing. This year I watched his effort go from cautious, to measured, to all out fun. He was able to feed off the energy of others, grow from confidence of coaches, and overcome his critical father on the sidelines. When he thanked me for coaching him as we got in the car, I wouldn't have traded the moment for anything. At that moment, I realized I couldn't afford to miss these opportunities. At the first of the season I had a pretty good list of justifications not to coach. I am a full-time university administrator, I teach evening university classes, and also am completing my doctoral degree. I have five uber-involved kids, a family farm to run, and a time-intensive church calling. I feel stretched, but can't remember the last time I said I was too busy. I heard other parents use the four letter word (busy) to escape the duty, at times even emphasizing the four letter word (busy) with other four letter words.

One of my heroes has always said that busy stands for "Being Under Satan's Yoke." I think that can be taken several ways, but inevitably everyone thinks they are busy. It is not a condition predicated by number of kids, number of jobs, number of positions or titles. I am slowly learning it is a condition we choose to use as a cop-out, one that costs us meaningful and worthwhile experiences where we can be serving others instead of doggedly guarding our lists of excuses of "busy-ness." I'm convinced that it is in the times when time logistics don't add up for us, yet we persist in dedicated efforts to serve others, that God steps in and gives us the most sweet and precious glimpses into pure happiness. Last night, in the dusk of a fall evening surrounded by smelly and emotional boys, I was afforded one of those glimpses.

Football, Faith and Healing

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Fall is here, football feeling is in the air, and the emotion that comes with it is an indescribable sensation that permeates individuals and communities. Simply put, I love it. Kenny Chesney sings of this phenomenon in his song "Boys of Fall."  He aptly describes the emotion with the lyrics;

"When I feel that chill, smell that fresh cut grass
I'm back in my helmet, cleats, and shoulder pads
Standin' in the huddle listenin' to the call
Fans goin' crazy for the boys of fall."

While at a recent game sitting in the stands on a warm, sunny day, letting the sights, sounds, and smells of fall football wash over my senses, I was basking in the euphoria of proudly watching my son Chad that I love dominate the game that I love (and hate). I watched him confidently jog onto the field and into the huddle. I watched play after play as he broke off long runs, threw pinpoint passes, interspersed by an occasional deep ball. By halftime he had thrown several touchdowns and run for another one en route to a sizable lead in the game. On one particular play, with his receivers covered, he scampered around the edge and down the sidelines for a long gain. With defensive players closing in, he ran out of bounds to end the play, only to be tackled and thrown onto the hard track. By his reaction, I thought I was going to witness his first altercation, but as the referees separated players, and he held his emotions in check, I saw him run to his coach across the field. I saw a coach grab his finger, give a quick yank, throw on some tape, and send him back out. I recognized the familiar sight of a dislocated finger, and felt the gnawing worry deep in my stomach. As the game progressed though, he appeared to be fine, and kept playing well.

That night as he got home from the game, I felt the worry return when I saw the swelling down the finger and into the hand. The next morning it was worse, so we went to the doctor. The deep worry turned to painful shock as we saw two breaks, one of them being a gruesome displacement. An immediate appointment was set with an orthopedic surgeon to set and pin the mangled finger. On Sunday, on the way back from home teaching, my son asked me for a priesthood blessing. Again the gnawing worry returned to my stomach. Would I be able to pronounce a blessing in accordance with God's will, and not my own? Would my conflicting emotions of wanting him better, but fearing yet another injury if he did return, allow me to block out myself and let God's words work through me? Would the words I would say affect my relationship with my son if they didn't happen? With these questions and others, I went to my room to pray and prepare.

Letting the Future Teach the Past

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

The content of this post started 36 years ago, connected one year ago, to a period of time over 100 years ago, that affects my life today. Let me explain.

Manti Temple, 1927, via Keepapitchinin

Last year four of our five children were participating in competitive sports, all five were involved in music lessons, I was finishing my coursework for my doctoral degree, and in spare time we have the work of running our family farm. Yet somehow, one Saturday opened up where no games were scheduled, no animals were out, and no ward activities were happening. My 15 year-old daughter Callie suggested we go do baptisms for some family names she had prepared with the help of my mother. We drove to Manti with our two oldest kids, and had a marvelous time at the temple. Returning home, we asked Callie about the ancestors we had been baptized for that day, starting the remarkable chain of events that connected so many years, generations, and needs.

At the age of 4, my father was killed in a farming accident. One of the results was that I knew very little of my paternal family history, even though I grew up in a town settled by my ancestors. Driving back from Manti that day opened up many questions, but also many lessons about my family that my 15 year-old daughter knew that I didn't. Upon our return, we sat as a family and researched and learned together about fascinating facts. About my great-great-grandpa who converted in Denmark, came to Utah, was called to settle Fillmore, and served as the town Mayor, orchestra conductor, barrel maker, bishop, farmer and molasses mill owner. I knew his name because my kids and I still have his brand that we use on our cattle and horses, but my daughter Callie taught me so much more. That common interest also brought Callie and I closer.

Then I read in Elder Bednar's book Act in Doctrine the following:

"It is no coincidence that FamilySearch and other tools have come forth at a time when young people are so familiar with a wide range of information and communication technologies. The skills and aptitude evident among many young people today are a preparation to contribute to the work of salvation. But do not overly program this endeavor or provide too much detailed information or training. Invite young people to explore, to experiment, and to learn for themselves."

Counciling and Counselors

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

We are a church of councilors, or counselors, or people affected by counseling with councils. I have served as a counselor in a bishopric, a high councilor, and currently in a position with two great counselors. I council with my family, with the ward council, work with a group of students called a service council which is located next to the counseling center on campus, and try to avoid situations requiring a disciplinary council or a marriage counselor.

In his book Counseling With Our Councils, Elder M. Russell Ballard encourages those with a sincere desire to lead organizations in spiritual and temporal purposes to "make sure you look for people who are strong where you feel you are weak."  Luckily that doesn't eliminate many people from consideration, as we all have weaknesses. We know that leadership opportunities provide us with a plethora of learning experiences, but many come from interactions from those we serve with in a leadership council, presidency, or group.

This week I have undergone one of the transitions in leadership change that has caused me to reflect and appreciate counselors. Our presidency group is diverse, very diverse. We range in age from 40-80 years old, in height from 6'5" to 5'5", have a strong left wing democrat, a staunch right wing tea partier, and very different occupational and educational backgrounds. However, it has been one of the most unified groups in purpose I have been part of. We are not devoid of individual imperfections, but collectively have been a strong group.

But as I write this and reflect, I realize the impact has not been in group performance, but in my individual growth. I have needed these men to support me, to correct me, and to teach me. I lost my father at a young age, and am acutely aware of male role model examples. From each of the group I have learned, been loved, and patiently been mentored. As my counselor was released this week, I realized he is a hero to me, a teacher for me, and a true friend. It is not the conversations about lessons, policies, and doctrines that I remember from him as much as the discussions on gardening, raising children, insights on people, testimony of the gospel, and love for our country. Every father should be able to learn from a dad like Lyle, every leader should feel the support of a counselor like Lyle, and every friend should learn what loyalty and love are from a friend like Lyle. I am blessed to say I have had this honor.

In an imperfect world I am touched and humbled to recognize a perfect gospel exists that allows teaching through so many methods. This allows that when we are in positions to teach and lead, we often are taught and led the most, and especially we are counseled by councils and associations with counselors.

Road Trips

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

photo via tapathelic

In the past month I have taken two trips. On one, my son flew with me to Washington DC. The four-hour flight seemed unbelievably long, uncomfortable, and stressful. My travel office had made great arrangements for travel and lodging, yet travel was still crazy as I navigated the hurry-up-and-wait airport mentality. DC is amazing though, and we literally ran to see all the sites and attractions.

The second trip was decided when we noticed that the 4th of July week gave us the best chance of avoiding conflicts with camps of all kinds (i.e. sports, scouts, student council, etc.) My brother-in-law lives in Oklahoma, certainly a place not known as a destination the caliber of Washington DC from a tourist perspective. However, we decided a 2000 mile round-trip drive would be feasible. So we loaded the family for an old-fashioned road trip, resulting in a fabulous and memorable experience.

The trip was old-fashioned in the way that most of us remember getting in the car and going to visit family down long stretches of lonely highway. Thankfully, vehicles have evolved significantly to provide a little more interior room, quite a bit less exterior room, and features like DVD players, better acoustics than 8-track players could have dreamed of, and air-conditioning that doesn't come from rolled down windows.

The Science of Trek

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Most of us are familiar with the fundamental questions of "Where do we come from?" "Why are we here?" and "Where are we going?" If you're not familiar with those questions, every Mormon has "two friends" who would like to discuss answers to those questions with you. However, in an attempt to help youth in our congregations ponder those questions and understand the accompanying insights, most of our LDS units put hours of preparation and planning into an experience fondly known as "Trek."

Last week I embarked on the spiritual Trek pilgrimage to ... Wyoming. Yes, the Wyoming of sparse population, unbalanced bovine to people ratio, unrelenting wind, copious amount of sagebrush, and vocabulary that is salty at best, and vulgar at worst. Even more, I went for a spiritual experience. Lest you are thinking that this sounds more like the ramblings of someone who instead visited one of the Wyoming watering holes, I assure you I am sober and have never tasted alcohol in my life.

Accompanied by several hundred men and boys dressed in wide-brimmed hats, long-sleeved shirts, bandanas, and denim-less trousers, we slung our possibles bags over our shoulders to proudly amalgamate for the journey with the hundreds of girls and women who were wearing bonnets, full-length dresses, and aprons in pre-assigned family groups. We were assigned campsites, given a handcart to pull, and educated by elderly couple missionaries on the history of the place and the people who passed through. Historically, it was fascinating, but the real treasure was the spiritual insight and experience gained.

MMM Library: Linked Parents, The Chain Conundrum

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

This post was originally published on January 25, 2012.

I grew up on a very large cattle ranch among a most colorful group of cowboys. I quickly became familiar with their ability to communicate in different types of metaphors, mixed metaphors, and mixed up metaphors. I’ll let you decide which type relates to the lesson of the chain.

The story is told of an old cowboy who pulls up to the local hardware store in his beat-up pickup truck, and determinedly marches into the store as fast as his bowed legs can carry him. “Give me the strongest chain you’ve got” he demands to the store clerk. The clerk politely inquires the length, and then measures, cuts, and delivers the chain to the impatient buckaroo. Within the hour, the quiet of the store is broken and filled with the rumble of the old truck, the clicking of run down boot heels on the sidewalk, and a loud rattling sound as the chain is angrily tossed back on the counter. “This chain don’t work” states the old cowboy. “I hooked on with it, and no matter how hard I pushed, it wouldn’t move a thing. It’s not stronger than my rope I tried to push with this morning.”

The chain metaphor and analogy was used to remind me in many situations of the difference between “pushing” and “leading.” When pushed, individual links of a chain go different directions, acting independently, and lacking a common purpose, they serve little use. Yet when pulled by a common purpose, each link lends individual strength that collectively fortifies the chain as a whole. Several times in my life I have found myself pushing, not leading.

Last night, I found myself once again reflecting on the lesson of the chain. I was standing in the corner of the gym at my son's basketball game. You see, I prefer standing near the corner, away from parents who are exerting their own “chain” powers. Some by pushing and shouting at their kids, the referees, and the coaches. Others by quietly complaining and comparing abilities of said kids, referees, and coaches. I’ve determined no one in the stands seems to be happy, and the swell of chain pushers inevitably spills ugly frustrations out on the court to a group of emotional, changing, somewhat insecure teenagers who are trying to figure out how to function as a pulled chain, linking their individual abilities in a cohesive athletic effort. So I choose to stand apart where I have to deal with my own emotions, independent of the commotion in the stands.

Clicked Off

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

As I walked into church last Sunday, I was hit by the social buzz that accompanies mission farewells. The chapel was filled to about twice the normal capacity with youth in the 16-21 year-old demographic, anxious to hear their friend speak, partake in the social gathering, feel validated in missing their regular ward meetings, and hopefully get fed a good meal afterward. They filled in the seats all around my family, and before skirts and slacks even hit the seats, cell phones were out and in full surfing/texting mode. I was mildly amused until the guy next to me dumped half the water tray in my lap as he was unsuccessful in texting with one hand and passing the tray in a level, upright position to me with the other hand. At that point I felt the spiritual disappointment for the lack of appreciation for a sacred symbol that I had looked forward to all week. I felt the disgust with his lack of courtesy in respecting my right to worship. I felt ashamed for his device addiction that didn't allow him to hear a great meeting or feel a special spirit. And I felt embarrassed to be feeling all of this while I should be focusing on the sacrifice of my Savior and the continued blessings of his gospel in my life.

As the sacrament concluded, my five year-old daughter came to sit on my lap, and gently asked if she could play with my phone. We live in an age that playing who can put your hand over your siblings hand game, drawing in a coloring book, or tracing your hand on the back of the program have been surpassed by free downloads of all kinds. Horse puzzles, interesting kids games (including bible-themed), and many others now have an amazing effect on keeping my squirming children quiet for the duration of the meeting. Step 1, make sure the phone is muted, step 2, sit back and focus on whatever un-kid related activity you want to for the meeting. It's that simple. Except for the fact that uncomfortable thoughts hit in those times, and one hit me.

"I am conditioning the exact behavior that I am condemning," I thought. "I'm taking the easy road, letting an electronic device entertain her, depriving her of learning reverence, paying attention, occasionally navigating the weird, the boring, or possibly the inspiring discourse given." I grew up without a phone in meetings, but still have to fight the urge to check a sports ticker, or venture beyond my Gospel Library app on my phone. However, allowing my kids to learn that behavior from a young age leaves little hope for them and conditions them to use sacred time for entertainment time. It reflects poorly on my stewardship as a father.

This reflection activity has led me in a careful self-analysis of my teaching, particularly during worship services. While it may be harder to go back to squirming, occasional boredom, or even apathy, I may also get back to helping my children to learn from a gospel that teaches endurance, perseverance, and work-to-learn mentality. Not easy, but I hope worth it.

The Fiber of Service

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Photo via UggBoy♥UggGirl.

Last week was a monumental marker in my parental progression. My oldest son went on his first date (first one he asked a girl on, I'm not counting the girls choice dance before). As planning started we were going to host him and three of his friends, along with their dates. A small group of eight would fit nicely in our front room, we could use the nice china dishes, and decorating would be simple. Gradually however, the group grew and grew. Suddenly transportation, food preparation, decorations, pictures, and a large enough venue started to become concerns. Basketball games evolved into mother planning times, hundreds of texts were sent between parents, and I had to show up three hours before the dinner just to set up and decorate. It had become a major event!

Arrival time quickly came, and my younger son was dressed in his nicest suit and stationed at the front doors to greet the young couples. My two youngest daughters were in their best dresses to serve the food, refill glasses, and clear plates. My wife was working with the other mothers to fill plates, prepare food, and keep things running. And I somehow found myself at the sink with my older daughter at my side helping me.

I never do love doing dishes, I don't like seeing wasted food, I don't like how it makes my hands feel, and I don't like how my back aches from bending over the sink. As the endless stream of different sized plates, the plethora of forks, and the lipstick smeared goblets began to bury me, I paused to stop and look around. I realized my son was more worried about conversation topics, using the right manners, and avoiding embarrassing moments. He probably didn't realize the army of people in the kitchen helping the dinner to go off smoothly. But when I saw my entire family busy and engaged in helping him behind the scenes, I was profoundly moved. Gone were the questions of "whose turn is it, didn't I just do this, or how do I get out of this?" For a brief moment, each member of my family was working their hardest in a completely happy and selfless way as part of a unified effort of service.

Marion G. Romney said that "Service is not something we endure on this earth so we can earn the right to live in the celestial kingdom. Service is the very fiber of which an exalted life in the celestial kingdom is made." Though we were enduring mundane tasks, serving together created a beautiful tapestry of love and laughter. I reflected back on shoveling snow for a neighbor, weeding a widow's garden, or other seemingly random acts placed in the path of our family to enjoy together a glimpse of eternity. Certainly this glimpse was also given to remind me to serve more as a family and enjoy more of these glimpses of greatness.

Who ART Thou?

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

I realize that this is the season to see and review movies. I think that release times coincide with the madness of the holidays when money is madly flying from pockets and budgets are cast by the wayside. Most of us returned to workplace discussions of what movies we saw over the holidays. This year, however, entertainment and "art" were combined with the release of Les Miserables. A certain social expectation exists for everyone to take a side on if they loved or hated it. This struggle of choice has caused me deep reflection in many areas, but mostly relating to "art."

I must preface this post by saying that I loved spending time with my wife at the movie. I loved the songs, the history, and much of the message. It was a cool movie, which I wish it could have just been. But instead, in an attempt to infuse it with "art," lines were sung that could just as well have been spoken. Movements were made that didn't have to be danced. And through it all, I realized I just don't get the art part, it detracted for me instead of helping.

I love music, and appreciate it. However, music is like caramel on ice cream for me, it has a time and place as a wonderful enhancer. I can't eat a straight diet of music, it quickly will gross me out by itself, but when judiciously used, it's awesome.

Dancing, well, that's like jalapenos on ice cream, it just doesn't work for me. The strange contortions of the body which are supposedly telling me a plot, a story, or an interpretation just don't get the message across to me. They are a stark reminder of my mission time spent in South America when gastrointestinal distress was a common companion. I've witnessed most modern dance "art" moves, but in dusty streets of pueblos, and not on an illuminated stage. My poor companions in pain rushing against the cruel clock of Mother Nature in search of bathroom facilities were not a thing of beauty, refinement, or culture. Yet the same movements, when performed by dancers on a stage in light clothing, are considered "art" and culture. If the message is so important, why can't performers just say it, post it on facebook, or spell it out. Hours watching to interpret are just too much!

I love poetry, many paintings, and music of all kinds. Movements are fine, I considered Michael Jordan in the open court, or Hakeem Olajowon in the post, or Jerry Rice on a go route to be incredibly graceful and inspiring. I'm inspired by the BYU Young Ambassadors doing cultural dances, and enjoyed watching Argentines dance the tango. Yet please don't force art upon me, by singing what should be said, making my guess your story by watching you jump around, or acting who you're not while dressed in crazy costumes, all in the name of art.

Christmas Traditions

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Christmas is a time filled with many festivities and traditions. Some are humbling, sweet, and inspiring. Examples include caroling to the elderly, family nativity scenes, reading from Luke 2, and seeing Christmas lights. These traditions are filled with an innocence and happiness difficult to describe, yet captured in many elements of revered Christmas music. It is a tangible spiritual and physical feeling of the love Christ has for us, evidenced by the gift of His life and His gospel that He gives to us.

Others traditions profoundly confuse me as to why they started, and how they perpetuate. Examples of these include Christmas trees, Christmas newsletters, Santa Claus, awkward gift exchanges, and fruitcake. The tradition of Christmas trees traces back into Old Testament days. In Jeremiah 10:3-4 it reads "3. For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with the axe. 4. They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not." I wish I had more detail, who decided to chop a tree, bring it in the house, and put sparkly things on it? Makes no sense to me, and though trees are undoubtedly pretty now, I still don't get the reason behind the tradition.

Along with Christmas decorations and the tree (to which my wife is AMAZING at decorating), she also devotes a huge area in our kitchen to hanging all the Christmas newsletters. The best ones are from those we choose to stay in contact with for the other 11 months of the year. We know their trips, what sports they play, and who's growing the most (but what does that have to do with Christmas anyway?). The humorous ones are the distant relatives and past acquaintances using this as an opportunity to perhaps preserve a fading relationship, or possibly other pure motives drive this. Facebook has turned these odd phenomena of odd pictures, family and personal insights, and occasional bragging into a yearly occurrence though. Perhaps I shouldn't make fun of newsletters, Facebook may be pushing them way of the Twinkie and the typewriter. The only way newsletters could get more awkward is by the odd comments a lot of the outlier people continually make on every post. Gratefully, traditional newsletters didn't allow for that. But back to the question, why the tradition? Perhaps it was spawned by from the Luke 2:3 reference of each person being taxed in his own city, an accounting if you will from each of us where we live, where we're from, and an accountability of our possessions and activities. Thanks Mr. Augustus and your Roman friends for your tradition of quirky dialogue and updates reported annually.

The third confusing tradition for me is Santa Claus. I know of few other ways to upset people as much as offending Santa, settle down, I'm not attacking him. I've seen the same shows as everyone else, and appreciated what Santa traditions add to the merriment. However, I also have curiously perused the annual pictures of screaming and terrified children sitting upon the lap of a portly elderly man tasked with the paramount duty of wrestling multiple children while trying to look merry and jolly. I watch grown adults blatantly lie to children about Santa's existence, well knowing that if it was the kids were lying to the parents, severe punishment would result. Integrity is fudged, more money is spent to provide "Santa's gifts" along with family gifts, and children psychologically navigate being told suddenly to sit on the lap of a bearded stranger dressed in red fuzzy clothing and tell him their deepest wishes. Certainly, the founders of this tradition outdid themselves.

I realize Christmas revelers are a devout and dedicated group, and in the blink of an eye they can change from their sparkly sweaters into the defenders of the Yuletide. I mean no offense to them, and cringe thinking of the personal attacks on my humanness and Christmas spirit that may result from my musings. I like Christmas, I really do. However, the traditions thoroughly confuse me, and probably will continue to. Yet, from my confusion, I extend a Merry Christmas to all readers, especially a sincere hope for the spirit of the reality of true Christmas, with Christ at the center.

Pie Personality Test

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

With Halloween safely in the rear view mirror, the next holiday is my very favorite. The simple focus is on gratitude, spending time with family, and of course food. Nothing is more telltale about a person than their taste in pie. A few years ago I read a pie personality test, and was intrigued. Through the years I have built my own. I hope you find it as useful as I have in using the powerful lens of pie selection to perceive personality type.

You Are Apple Pie
You're the perfect combo of comforting and traditional.
You prefer things the way you've always known them.
You'll admit that you're old fashioned, and you don't see anything wrong with that.
Your tastes and preferences are classic. And classic never goes out of style.
Those who like you crave security.
People can rely on you to be true to yourself - and true to them.
You're loyal, trustworthy, and comfortable in your own skin.
And because of these qualities, you've definitely earned a lot of respect.

You Are Pumpkin Pie
You're the perfect combo of uniqueness and quality.
You're able to relate to many types of people with many different tastes. But you're by no means generic or
   ordinary. In fact, you're one of the most original people around.
Those who like you are looking for something (or someone) special.
You tend to confuse people when they first meet you. But you're not as complicated as you seem.
Even though you have a lot of spice and flavor to you, you're never overpowering.
You are a calm and comforting force in people's lives.

You Are Cream Pie
You're the perfect combo of simplicity and divinity.
You are a secret hedonist. No one knows how indulgent you can be.
You don't indulge often, but when you do, you go for the best.
You have expensive taste - even if you aren't rich.
Those who like you live for understated pleasures.
You're not flashy or trendy, but you have a depth that most people lack.
Interacting with you makes most people feel incredibly satisfied.
You are gentle, super sweet, and in harmony with those around you.

Less Is More

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

I recently read about the Mabaan tribe, who live in the southern area of Sudan, near the border with Ethopia. This is an area of extreme quiet, which has led to a remarkable ability of the people to hear on an astonishingly acute level. Reportedly the Mabaan can hear a fellow tribesman whispering from across a wide field.

At the recent temple dedication of the Brigham City Temple, a contrast was explained when talking about church members in New York City. It was explained that with the frenetic sounds of Manhattan, people become accustomed so much, that when they enter the temple, experiencing peace and quiet is striking for them.

At birth, our ears can discern more than 300,000 sounds, but after years of exposure to loud noises, the hair cells on the cochlea flatten and become less sensitive. Our brains process sounds a thousand time faster than images we see, and so noise affects everything from our concentration to our health. Too much noise can raise blood pressure, and even make us sick, hence the word noise originates from the Latin word nausea (scientific insight on the term from parents "I'm sick of your music"). Yet positive noise, like uplifting music, can accelerate learning, improve moods, and uplift the mind and spirit. I watch in amazement as my wife teaches children music classes, and how the power of music physically, cognitively, and emotionally transforms kids.

Acoustics are especially interesting for me. After the death of my father when I was four years old, I temporarily lost my hearing. I remember the feelings of confusion in trying to communicate, and the helplessness of others in knowing how to talk to me and treat me. However, though I lacked auditory senses, I began to discover other senses that had perhaps been precluded by noise. When I did regain my hearing, we moved to a large cattle ranch and I was quickly shown the opposite end of the sound spectrum. Moving large herds of cattle, often numbering over 1000 at a time, generated all kinds of sounds. The cows all begin mooing to find their calves, with calves also mooing to locate their separated mothers. I was taught to yell loudly over the din of the cattle to keep them moving, but also to know the proximity to other cowboys, whose location often couldn't be seen through the haze of the churned dust or the thickness of brush and trees. My young lungs weren't big enough to generate much force, so I had to shout my very loudest at the cattle. I thought the force made a difference in getting them going, though looking back I'm sure the high range of my prepubescent voice struck some fear in their bovine hearts.

School Role Call

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Image by Anthony Easton.

As another school year is approaching, and a summer of class reunions is concluding, I recently reflected on the important "roles" filled year after year by brave students. There are widely known group roles that I'll avoid addressing. These include the athlete group, the cheerleader group, the academic group, the band group, etc. Inclusion and conformity make it comfortable and cool to be part of a group, and insane amounts of time, energy, and money are spent trying to "fit in" one of them. However, at schools across the country, a few "niche" roles are filled that add color and culture to every campus.

The following are my six favorites:

6 The Old Car Troll. Each school parking lot is incomplete without a young male trolling the parking lot in a fixed-up old car. Models are usually from the 1970's, painted a bright color, have big tires and loud music blaring, and 99.9% of the time are captained by a mullet-sporting, muscle-shirt wearing champion. These charismatic cruisers favor wraparound sunglasses, and make their presence known by loud revving of engines and frequent "peel outs" in the parking lot. Energy drinks (preferably in a 64-ounce mug size) and multiple amplifiers are a must to fill this role.

5 The Martial Arts Master. Swiftness, skill, and stealth define this sneaky warrior. You may catch a glimpse of a Chinese star, a pair of nun-chucks, or a butterfly knife comb as you walk past the locker of the class sensei. Beware of standing too close, as at spontaneous times he will break out with kicks, chops, or crouches. Don't pick on the martial arts master, you can tell he's dying to demonstrate his "moves." His notebooks are most likely filled with Asian characters or sketches of hand-to-hand combatants.

4 The Break Dancer. This is the keeper of the timeless art and tradition of break dancing. This double-jointed jammer is jiving and jerking wherever he goes. Whether in the lunchroom, the library, or in his personal performance pedestal of school dances, the beat is alive and well as he moonwalks, waves, and spins through life.

3 The Thespian. This is a role that can be filled by either gender, and well may be filling parts of both genders in the next school production. Emotions run high for these climatic characters who feverishly hone the art of drama to fanatical levels. If other students threaten or offend these fabled fellows, expect a diatribe of exquisite diction unmatched in other areas of school, for they are easily provoked and aroused to anger.

2 Mr. Muscle. Every school has a ripped rebel whose days basically alternate between chugging protein shakes and weight lifting. If allowed, the majority of this brute's classes would be weightlifting, weight training, sports performance, and sports psychology. Coaches work hard at getting this brawny beefcake onto their team, but he makes it very clear that cardio and strength training are his only game in town. If you want to connect with Mr. Muscle, he's always open to supplement suggestions or tutoring.

1 The Cowboy. Tight wranglers, Justin boots, a Copenhagen ring on his back pocket, and a big truck adorned with bumper stickers with such gems of wisdom like: "Wrangler butts drive me nuts," "Save a horse, ride a cowboy" and political views expressed in various vorms of peeing Calvins. It is likely cowboy boy isn't actively involved in agrarian life or has no bovine association outside of FFA judging contests, but he loves the cowboy look and aspires to be the next Marlboro man. A daily challenge in the parking lot is to avoid crashing into Old Car Troll boy and/or out-blast Troll's car music with Clint Black, Toby Keith, and Garth Brooks. Don't look for the cowboy wannabe from October - December, as he will be involved in pheasant, duck, deer, and any other special draw hunts.

Hometown Cooking

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

In Utah, parade season is in full bloom. Pioneer Day, Strawberry Days, Onion Days, Pony Express Days, Lamb Days, and [insert small town name] Days bring together locals, those with local ties who no longer reside in the area, and out of town visitors. These are times that bring everyone together, reestablish old ties, and remind me of everything I love about American communities.

My hometown of Kanosh still boasts a robust parade with the floats either sponsored by an LDS ward subgroup (primary, scouts, young women, etc.) or being comprised of livestock (horses of various sizes, mules, goats, etc.). Other livestock is available for adoption (pending your ability to capture it among many other running people in an enclosed area of the park). Lubricants of all kinds are important as greased money poles, greased pigs, hair grease for the few men still clinging to the 50’s, and something that emits large black clouds of smoke from the old time tractors either in the parade or at the kid rides. Games, music, dances, and other social events fill in the gaps between the most important events … eating.

There is competitive eating, creative eating, and lots of over-eating. The best ticket into these events is your name. Standard pioneer stock town names guarantee lifetime membership in the town. If you're a "move in," the title doesn't ever expire, even if you've lived in the town your whole life. Some ecclesiastical callings (i.e. Bishop or scoutmaster) may expedite class distinction changes from import to native, as will any Scandinavian suffix on your last name or obviously accepted names like Smith, Young, or Hinckley that are like a social acceptance fast pass in Mormondom.

Icarus/Ferdinand Paradox

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Image via *F~.

Icarus or Ferdinand?

Icarus was a figure in Greek mythology. Together with his father, Daedalus, he was held in prison. Then, Daedalus had a bright idea. He started collecting feathers that had dropped from the sky and glued them onto some twigs using beeswax. He made two pairs of wings.

Daedalus told his son, "Icarus, let’s fly out of here!" Initially, Icarus thought, "Yeah old guy, like that's going to work; a pair of wings!" But Daedalus said, "Believe me son, they will work, just try them." And so Icarus did so. He put on the wings and, cautiously, started flapping his arms. And, much to his surprise, he took off!

Icarus was flying, initially quite cautiously but gradually he grew more confident and started enjoying his flight. He started flying higher and higher. Eventually Icarus got so high that he started flying too close to the sun. The beeswax melted, the feathers popped out, and Icarus fell back down to earth.

This is what we call the Icarus Paradox. The same thing that had made Icarus successful, escape the prison and fly, is what led to his downfall. In his overconfidence, Icarus had become blinded to the dangers of flying too close to the sun.

Ferdinand was a young bull, larger in stature and more powerful than all the other young bulls. Yet while the others would run and knock heads, Ferdinand would sit under the cork tree and smell the flowers. Despite his physical gifts, Ferdinand’s interests and passions did not lie in physical competitiveness and ambition to be selected for the bull fights. Ferdinand’s mother recognized the kind heart and gentle desires within her large son, and understood and protected him.