Do Hard Things

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by Seattle Jon:

Summit of Mount Adams. Mount Rainier in the distance.

I recently summited Mount Adams with my two oldest children, Ella (14) and Will (12). The 12,281 foot strato-volcano is the second highest mountain in the state of Washington, and while the climb isn't that technical, crampons and ice axes are needed and people do die in pursuit of the summit.

The six-mile climb from trailhead to summit took two days and was extremely difficult, one of the most physically and mentally challenging things I've done in my life. Part of me wonders what I was thinking doing this with them, but the other part thinks I don't do enough hard things with my kids.

My sense is too many kids these days live less-challenged lives. Society, it seems, has extremely low expectations of kids, especially teenagers, which can cause them to then have low expectations of themselves. Providing opportunities for kids to get out of their comfort zone and encouraging them to exceed expectations as often as possible should foster personal growth on a level we're not used to seeing.

We've already seen changes in Ella and Will - some subtle and some extraordinary - since the climb.

Will was a machine on the climb, leading our party of six for most of the way. I could not pass him no matter how hard I tried. He was the first to start out after breaks and the first to summit. Since the climb, he's been more patient and fun with his brothers, and interestingly, a smarter eater. I'm thinking this might be because we were careful about what food we packed and how we had to ration near the end of the climb. He also seems more mature and a little wiser than before. Instead of poorly managing his time last year as an 11 year-old scout camper, returning with only one complete and two partial merit badges, he returned this year the week following the climb with five merit badges and no partials after planning to complete just three. Coincidence?

View from camp. Mount St. Helens in the distance.

Ella has been a different young woman since the climb. There was a moment on the mountain that could have been a turning point for her personally. We'd reached the false summit, about 800 feet below the true summit. We were exhausted and our food and water were running low. Rather than resting, Will and I pushed ahead, leaving Ella and her cousin to follow with another member of the party. When that person had to sit out the final ascent due to injury, Ella and her cousin had a choice to make. They could sit out too, or get up and climb a very difficult last 800 feet to the summit by themselves. I can't tell you how cool it was to look back down the mountain and see them trudging up the snow and ice. I think Ella knows she made a difficult choice and accomplished something amazing, and it changed her. Since returning, she has been more confident, happy and content; less moody, judgmental and reclusive; and quicker to forgive and express love. Surely this too can't be a coincidence.

What is it about doing hard things that changes who we are?


Seattle Jon is a family man, little league coach, urban farmer and businessman living in Seattle. He currently gets up early with the markets to trade bonds for a living. In his spare time he enjoys movies, thrifting and is an avid reader. He is a graduate of Brigham Young University and the Japan Fukuoka mission field. He has one wife, four kids and three chickens.
Image credit: GB Overton (used with permission).

Guest Post: BASEcamp - A Youth Program Reinvented

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When Greg Tanner walked away as Director of the BYU youth program—EFY—after 12 years, it was a leap of faith; but one he felt he had to take. He knew it was time to bring forward a vision for a youth program that had been building in his mind, and in his heart.

The powers-to-be at EFY didn't seem to want more "change." Greg, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about change. He saw how the times had changed, he saw how the responsibility of the youth had grown and changed, he saw the mission-age change, and he took to heart the words of the brethren who expressed a need for our homes and our communities to be an MTC.

Today, Greg's vision has become a reality, and BASEcamp is helping LDS youth learn how to Believe, Act, Serve, and Endure.

When asked the major differences between EFY and BASEcamp, Greg explains that BASEcamp is about active learning, opposed to passive learning. Greg carries with him a passion for teaching the youth, and understanding their great responsibility. He feels their lives are full of incredible challenges, but also opportunity. He hopes to help them rise to the occasion. With that in mind, Greg believes there is a need beyond simply having the speakers and classes. Rather, BASEcamp is filled with workshops where youth actively participate. The core curriculum focuses on learning, and learning to teach. Greg explains that you have to learn something in order to teach it. The youth role-play with missionary discussions, and the participants are asked to teach what they know. A big question posed to the youth is: "How do we now help people, knowing what we now know?" The youth are encouraged to think about service, and how their knowledge can benefit others.

Similarly to EFY, they have counselors for the children, but these leaders are instead referred to as "Guides." Greg uses the description of someone who guides people up the mountain, but those climbing still have to climb, and do the work.

Greg strives to make BASEcamp more affordable, and feels strongly about families attending together, because there is more strength and knowledge in numbers. If siblings attend together, the first participant is full price, and the other children--only half the cost.

Thirteen-year-olds get to attend BASEcamp, rather than EFY's strict 14-years-old and older policy. Greg sees no reason to wait. "Sure, we have a dance," he says, and many wonder if a 13-year-old can dance, but Greg says: "How many 18-year-olds can dance?" He says the dance is a social activity, where line dances, and switching partners during slow songs happens. In this day and age, and with the changing times, he repeats: "There is no reason we shouldn't want our 13-year-olds to participate."

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.

Dear Seattle Fog

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by Seattle Jon (bio)

You make my commute a slog.
You cause people to lose their dogs. (or chickens in my case)
You'd make it easy pickings for Smaug.
You'd look better over a bog.
You make some not want to jog.
I might enjoy you more if I were sipping eggnog.
Oh, and now you made my blog.

(pictures below from our current foggy streak of seven days)

Guest Post: When is a Weed a Weed?

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Reed Soper was born and raised in southern California. He considered attending the Lord's University but opted for BYU instead where he met Kathryn Lynard doing his home teaching. They married in 1992 and have seven children. Friends and loved ones often describe Reed as "difficult" or "a slow learner." In his spare time, he likes (virgin) pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Don't miss Reed's previous guest posts.

Our family bought our first home in a modest neighborhood. By modest, I mean, old, small and run-down. Lots of poor people, both because it was their first home and they stretched to buy it or the owners were senior citizens on fixed incomes without the means to maintain the property. There were homes, interspersed throughout the neighborhood that had well-attended yards, but they were the exception, not the rule. That being said, we bought what we thought we could afford. As I fumble to describe the yard of this first house, um, let's say it was apparent that the previous owners and the yard were not on speaking terms.

We bought the home in April, which I learned was the beginning of weed season. I spent a lot of time pulling weeds, watering what was left of the lawn in an attempt to conjure it back to life, cleaning debris, and generally trying to make it look decent. It took regular effort, like effort nearly every day, to eventually bring the yard to a level that I was okay with. One of my neighbors with a well-maintained yard approached me after we'd lived there for a year or so and complimented me on my efforts. My heart swelled. I was one of them! By them, I mean, those whose yards collectively raised the profile of the neighborhood rather than lowered it. I wanted to stay in that club.

As with nearly all things, our ownership of this home came to an end. It was time to move to a larger home, nearer to my work and maybe in a nicer neighborhood. We had the good fortune of finding all three. One of the things that impressed me about this house is that, with the exception of one (1), all of the yards on this street were carefully manicured. This was where I wanted to be, or so I thought.

Not only were the homes larger, the yards were as well. On paper, a larger yard made a bunch of sense – more room for the kids to play, plus bigger is always better, right? Wrong. We had made the offer on the home in April, not only the beginning of the weed season, but the wettest part of the year. At that time, the lawn was green and lush. We took occupancy the beginning of July, which in the desert that is Utah, is the dry season. I guess the sellers thought that since we bought it, they had no reason to irrigate the yard. So we took over and I had another project.

The one thing, though, is the yard was twice as big. And, as the kids got older, they seemed to need to be shuttled to more places. And my work seemed to demand more of my attention. And I learned that I like to do other things besides yard work. Let's just say, my standards have slipped.

My current neighbors would easily win an award for the best people ever. I mean that totally sincerely. They are friendly, patient, willing to help, interesting, talented, and with the exception of the Green's house, great landscape maintainers. I don't think that they think ill of me because I have more dandelions in my lawn than they do. But I have a theory about the concept of "passive-aggressive" speech. I will describe it in the footnotes so you don't have to read it if you don't want to. (2) I don't think their statements like "Wow, the dandelions really seemed to like your yard this year" were intended to say anything other than the surface meaning. That doesn't mean I haven't had the following conversation in my head:

Them: Wow, the dandelions really seemed to like your yard this year.

Me: Oh, no, I wanted them there. I planted them.

The Uses of Simple

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by Bradly Baird (bio)

That Tree, photography by Mark Hirsch

It is raining at our house today. It is a gentle rain made up of large friendly droplets that 'smoosh' against the pavement in a nice way. They hit cars and make an engaging rhythm, they fall through the leaves of a nearby tree and run down its branches in gentle rivulets. This inviting scene compels me to step through our front door and onto the porch. I feel a rush of cool air and fight back the urge to strip down, run barefoot up the street, and splash about in the large puddles and streams forming over the pavement.

I don't really put any effort into fighting the temptation and it very quickly overwhelms my mind. I start to pull off my shirt and unbutton my pants (don't worry, the entire neighborhood is at church while I stay at home to nurse my sick wife), when a movement catches my eye. Between a couple of cars about fifty yards away, I catch a glimpse of something red moving about. I readjust the focus of my eyes towards the moving object and notice a young girl with a red umbrella dancing about.

She holds the umbrella above her head and spins, while her feet tap an unknown rhythm in shallow puddles. I cannot clearly see the details of her face because of the distance, but this is the happy dance of an elated child who understands the joys of playing in the rain. I am certain she does not know that I am watching her, but I doubt it would matter. She is so consumed with her joy at finding a perfect childhood moment that nothing else matters. I am entranced by the scene, and after a few more minutes of watching her spin like she's imitating Gene Kelly, I realize that I am smiling broadly and laughing quietly.

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.

Fathers & Sons: Three Reasons I Support the Annual May Event

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by Pete Codella (bio)

Every ward I’ve lived in since getting married has held an event during the month of May for fathers and sons: the annual Fathers and Sons Camp Out.

Perhaps such an event existed while I was a child, youth, teenager or young adult, but I don’t have a recollection of ever participating in this event until I was married. I don’t remember my dad ever taking me to a Fathers and Sons.

After I was married, I attended before I actually had a son because, although I wasn’t a father, as our bishop explained, I was a son and therefore eligible to participate. And when my son finally came along in 2005, I had him in tow with me at our ward’s annual Fathers and Sons at just 9 months old the following May. (I think I packed the most things for that trip, including a portable crib, diapers, food and all the trappings that go along with kids that age these days.)

Lots of rain on this Fathers and Sons Camp Out.
The Jordan River Utah Temple is in the background.

Last weekend my now seven year-old son and I set-up a tent in the rain and stuck it out all Friday night, had breakfast the next morning, then threw everything in the truck soaking wet to get home, dried out and warmed up.

For those of you not fond of camping, you may not choose to participate in such a seemingly silly event. But I quite like Fathers and Sons, and I’ll give you three reasons why.

1. May marks the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood (May 15, 1829 to be exact). That's why we gather as men and boys in the month of May, to commemorate that event.

In The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints this priesthood is available to worthy males beginning at the ripe old age of 12. It’s quite remarkable to me that our Father in Heaven entrusts the authority to act in His name—the priesthood—to such young men. Also remarkable is the opportunity to serve given to the youth (boys and girls) of the LDS Church.

A Near-Death Drowning Experience

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by Pete Codella (bio)

I'm pictured here (on the left) with our Rabat, Morocco
host family's son, Otman, and fellow Young Ambassador, Brad.

It was May 4, 1994. Me and a group of college buddies traveling with the BYU Young Ambassadors left our seaside hotel in Asilah, Morocco, and headed to the ocean to take advantage of some of the largest breaking waves any of us had ever seen. We were so excited to get into the water and do some body surfing.

Here's what I wrote in my journal about my experience that evening:

Once we got there I headed out to the ocean with the usual group. The beach was beautiful as the sun was setting. I went out and was body surfing but I got out too far. The waves were very strong and the undercurrent even stronger, and I ended up in lots of trouble. For a couple minutes, it seemed like, I was being pushed or pulled under water.

I was so tired from lack of sleep that I was starting to lose strength. Luckily, Dave was out about two waves from me — neither of us could touch bottom — and he had a floaty board from the hotel. He had lost it in a wave and it came towards me.

I had been hollering at Chris to help me, but he was too far away. I turned around to find David just as a wave brought the board by me and I was able to grab it and hold on to it. I wrapped the string around my wrist and got on it. I was still knocked off the board and under water twice. But I made it back, totally exhausted and scared.

Looking back on that experience, I know it was no accident the boogie board was there and that it was directed to me so I could catch my breath and eventually make my way back to shore. I was swallowing so much water and having trouble staying on top of the waves that I thought I was going to drown.

I remember thinking, "Heavenly Father, I'm really in trouble. If you don't want me to drown, I could really use some help here." The very next wave brought me the blue boogie board, which basically hit me in the head.

Then the thought came to me, "You might lose hold of the board with the next wave. Better wrap that string around your wrist so you can stay connected."

Some may say this experience was happenstance or luck. I believe it was an answer to prayer, followed by revelation. There was no doubt in my mind that I needed help to make it back to shore alive. I prayed for help and it arrived in the form of a borrowed blue foam kickboard. Then, like a light bulb turned on in my mind, I had the wise thought to secure the board to my body by wrapping the rope attached to it several times around my wrist.

This small flotation device made it possible for me to stay on top of the water long enough to catch my breath and eventually rejoin my group.

My life is peppered with noteworthy experiences like this — experiences where my knowledge of a loving, caring, responsive Heavenly Father has been reinforced bit by bit until my awareness, belief and knowledge of Heavenly Father has become sure, firm and unshakable.

This doesn't mean life is easy, that there aren't challenges along the way. But it does mean I know from experience that I can always call upon support from an all-knowing, all-seeing Supreme Being who takes the time and makes the effort to be involved in my little life.

I know my Heavenly Father lives and loves me perfectly. I love him too, albeit imperfectly, and look forward with faith and hope to a future reunion with Him and all my loved ones.

Sunday In the Rockaways

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by May Jones (bio)

In the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, I suffered a little bit from survivor's guilt. Here on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, we watched on our fully-powered televisions in our well-lit living rooms as our downtown neighbors lost all power. Then, the next day, we saw the horrific scenes of homes on fire, coastlines obliterated, and cars completely underwater. We felt relieved, of course, but also somewhat helpless. So close, yet so far away. Some displaced families were brought up to live in our schools and we were able to provide a bit of relief in the way of clothing and toys, but we still wanted to do more. We started collecting donations to send in vans out to the hard-hit coastal areas of New York. Then, two weekends ago, thanks to Mormons Helping Hands, we got to go out to the Rockaways ourselves to pitch in.

On Sunday morning, bright and early, my step dad and I drove out to Plainview, NY, to a stake center there. When we walked into the cultural hall, about a hundred members of the Nashua, New Hampshire stake were sitting in folding chairs singing I Know That My Redeemer Lives. Everyone was wearing work boots and jeans and sweatshirts and several people had on bright yellow shirts or jerseys inscribed with the Mormon Helping Hands logo. The early morning sacrament meeting service consisted of the passing of the sacrament, a stake counselor reading a few scriptures, and then testimonies offered by those who had been out to the site the day before. We finished by singing Called to Serve. It was one of the most memorable Sunday morning services I've ever attended.

Afterward, we got our team assignments and drove out to Belle Harbor in the Rockaways in Queens. Other stakes met us there, including my own, as well as other non-member friends who wanted to help. Our team was assigned to two missionaries, who led us to our first house. I saw many missionaries throughout the day, with their name tags pinned to the front of their jerseys. They have been working day in and day out for the past three weeks and I wished their parents could have seen them out there.

My first impression of the area was that it felt like a war zone. Large trucks barricaded the ends of streets and piles of debris were everywhere. At our first house, we transported water damaged belongings sorted into huge piles in the backyard to the dumpster across the street. The homeowner shared with us his feelings of being overwhelmed at having to basically sort through his whole life and try to figure out how to replace it. And all with no power. Every time his wife came outside, she repeated, "Thank you so much, thank you so so much." With our team of ten, we were able to clean up the backyard in less than an hour. I know that if it had been my house, I would have gone out and stared at that pile for days, just trying to figure out where to start. I was happy that we relieved them of that burden, at least.

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.

Ave Maria

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by Clark (bio)

The other day I decided to take advantage of the warm weather and go out for a walk around the city. I am still getting my bearings around this new town and want to make it a habit to just get out and walk and explore. I came across this mural while out and about. You can read up on the mural, as well as view a short video, here. If you have a chance to walk around Salt Lake City be sure to trek on over by 150 South and 200 East and you'll be sure to see it.

Is Your Ear On The Track?

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by Seattle Jon (bio)

image by Seattle Jon, taken at Teddy Bear Cove

A few weeks ago, we welcomed a seven year-old boy into our home. After nearly five years of trying to adopt, Jonny is a long-awaited addition and a blessing we were beginning to doubt would ever happen. Needless to say, his presence had an immediate impact on us.

My wife and I had driven alone to pick up Jonny in Portland while a good friend watched our other three children. After arriving home and giving him a quiet tour of our house, we took Jonny to have dinner at our friends’ house. They live on the ocean, so the kids (our four, their two) asked me to take them across the railroad tracks and up the beach to a shelter someone had built. The first thing I did once we exited their yard was to show Jonny how to listen for trains by putting his ear on the track.

After an hour of playing, we started back. The two oldest boys were already up the beach, past the stairs leading up to the tracks. They yelled that they’d climb the rocks and wait for us. Looking south, the tracks are visible for miles and miles and I didn’t see any trains. Turning north, the tracks bend out of sight a few hundred yards up the beach. Not seeing or hearing anything there either, I gave them a thumbs up and marched the remaining four kids up the stairs and onto the tracks for the short walk back to the house.

The first thing Jonny did was put his ear on the track, then to my surprise he said, “I hear a train.”

Guest Post: Hugh Nibley, Mormon Conservationist

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Have something to say? Anyone can submit a guest post to Modern Mormon Men. Just send us an email with your post, a post title and a paragraph of introduction (on yourself).

"Grizzly" Adam Lisonbee lives in Utah with his wife and five kids. He enjoys mountain biking and backcountry skiing. He writes about his outdoor (mis)adventures at Grizzly Adam. Adam's first book, Mythical and Tangible: Tales of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Singletrack, is available for purchase (digital, print). The book chronicles Adam's ongoing journey to find spiritual and philosophical meaning while exploring the outdoors. Read Adam's first guest post here.

“If God were to despise all things beneath him, as we do, where would that leave us?” ~ Hugh W. Nibley

Hugh Nibley, most widely known for his scholarly work in the field of ancient scripture, was an outspoken voice of reason on all manner of things concerning Mormon social habit and culture. He famously opened (in prayer) a Commencement at BYU with the words “[w]e have met here today clothed in the black robes of a false priesthood.” Some years later he explained himself:

Many have asked me since whether I really said such a shocking thing, but nobody has ever asked what I meant by it. Why not? Well, some knew the answer already, and as for the rest, we do not question things at the BYU. But for my own relief, I welcome this opportunity to explain: a ‘false priesthood?’ Why a priesthood? Because these robes originally denoted those who had taken clerical orders, and a college was a ‘mystery’ with all the rites, secrets, oaths, degrees, tests, feasts, and solemnities that go with initiation into higher knowledge. But why false? Because it is borrowed finery, coming down to us through a long line of unauthorized imitators.

Such was the tone of Nibley. Critical, but honest. Misunderstood, eccentric, and yet unmatched by any of his pupils, colleagues, and rivals. He died in 2005, leaving a gaping hole in Mormon scholarship, filled admirably if differently, by his close friend Truman Madsen*, who followed Nibley in death in 2009. Many others now carry onward the work that Dr. Nibley pioneered.

*I had the privilege of working closely with Truman Madsen for the better part of a year on a documentary film series shortly before his death. That experience remains a highlight. In many ways, his voice was unique and irreplaceable. While the church is long on scholars, it is short on philosophers. Truman represented the very best of both.

As in most things, Nibley was well-versed in his defense of the environment, or rather, our stewardship over it, and highly critical of what had become—and remains—the default views of many Mormons regarding its preservation, treatment, and sacred nature. He wrote, “The connection between the sacred and profane is entirely a proper one, and I welcome the excuse for a philosophical discourse. For as we learn even from the Word of Wisdom, body and mind—the temporal and the spiritual—are inseparable, and to corrupt the one is to corrupt the other. Inevitably our surroundings become a faithful reflection of our mentality and vice versa.”

Made in Americana: The Amazing Easter Egg Chicken

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by jpaul (bio)

Just when I thought urban farming couldn’t get any more interesting, I started getting blue eggs from my favorite hen, Chewbacca. What an amazing pet.

Once she started a couple weeks ago, she hasn’t stopped laying them. I get an egg a day without fail, and if I am around for lunch that day, nothing tastes better than a blue eggs and ham sandwich. Chewbacca is an amazing breed of chicken known as the Americana (actually spelled Ameraucana, but I don’t like that spelling). When I purchased her a few months back, I was told that when she starts laying, her eggs would be either brown, pink or blue. Half the fun is waiting for the first egg to arrive to see what color “egg gene” the chicken has. Because of the variety of color, these chickens are also known as Easter Egg chickens.

Now that she is laying, all three of my chickens are in production mode, which means we get 2 to 3 eggs/day. After the initial trials of broken chicken coops and raccoon/hawk/possum attacks, my little backyard experiment is beginning to pay off. While urban farming is not meant to be a profitable venture, it is nice to know that I can now officially stop buying eggs. Rather than being a financial decision, I believe there is a spiritual aspect of urban farming that has been lost in our fast- moving, fast-food society. Brigham Young spoke wisely when he admonished the saints to never lose touch with urban farming as they settled Salt Lake Valley:

“The soil, the air, the water are all pure and healthy. Do not suffer them to become polluted. Strive to preserve the elements from being contaminated. Keep your valleys pure, keep your towns pure, keep your hearts pure, and labor as hard as you can. Adorn your habitations, make gardens, orchards, and vineyards, and render the earth so pleasant that when you look upon your labors you may do so with pleasure and that angels may delight to come and visit your beautiful locations.”

Okay, maybe he didn't say "urban farming", but he came pretty close. We should all ask ourselves if we have rendered our little place on this earth pleasant so that angels would be delighted to visit. As spring comes in the next months, begin small with one or two vegetables in a pot and you may soon find yourself with a full-size garden and chickens roaming your backyard. If you need help getting started, visit FarmLoco.com, the first community of urban farmers.

Note: MMM contributor Casey Peterson was recently spotlighted on Farm Loco.

Guest Post: Mormons Don't Surf!

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Have something to say? Anyone can submit a guest post to Modern Mormon Men. Just send us an email with your post, a post title and a paragraph of introduction (on yourself).

Big D is a stay-at-work dad who spends his early mornings surfing, his days building strategic advertising campaigns, and his evenings professionally repairing surfboards on the side in San Clemente, California. He is a husband to an amazing wife, a proud father of three, and a cultural mormon who enjoys reading the writings of our country's founding fathers. You can read Big D's first guest post here.

“Ponce DeLeon sailed the ocean 
in search of The Fountain of Youth, 
when all he had to do was jump over the side of his ship.” - Skip Frye

My own mother recently referred to me as a “bum.” I guess she felt warranted giving me that title because of the accumulation of several things; my personal spiritual beliefs, my association with particular friends, as well as my incessant need to find fulfillment in an activity she’ll never comprehend. Of course these are all assumptions as to the reason why. You see, I’ve spent most of my life setting goals and acquiring accolades that, in general, people would think are about as far away from “bum status” as possible. Accomplishments like being an Eagle Scout, college graduate, 10-year business professional and small business starter, CPR certified, married, and a father of three all come to mind. But I guess those things were overlooked before deciding my newfound classification.

You see, I have a deep affinity for the ocean and oftentimes spend countless hours chasing surf and riding waves. I’m basically the guy sitting in a business meeting thinking about water displacement off the tail of a surfboard instead of focusing on expanding strategic marketing initiatives. But many times being labeled a “surfer” comes with a particular bum status stigmatism. Maybe that’s where the whole thing originated, but I digress.

Names

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by Casey Peterson (bio)

Image via boocal.

When recently I was changed from “guest” to “contributor” status on MMM, I was asked to provide a moniker. This has always been a challenge for me, and cause for deep reflection of the power and purpose of a name.

The historical instances of changing names is quite interesting. From the aspiring musician Gordon Sumner, who because of his propensity to wear black and yellow attire was given the moniker of Sting. To the young USC football player from Iowa named Marion Morrison, who was asked to take on a more manly name, John Wayne. Few of us readily recognize Norma Jean Mortenson (Marilyn Monroe), or Samuel L. Clements (Mark Twain). Yet in the technology world of today, many of us have monikers or aliases, but do we really know the reasons?

Calvin & Hobbes: Reflections

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by Seattle Jon (bio)

The mornings have been colder lately, so I wasn't surprised when Seattle received its first heavy snow forecast of the season this past weekend (by Utah standards, nothing significant fell). I remember the first snowfall of last year. Not much had stuck, but the kids came home from church ready to have "snowball fights." When I wished them luck in gathering enough snow for even one snowball, Will said, "Well, maybe we'll just throw snowflakes at each other."

Snow and kids often turns my thoughts to Calvin & Hobbes (Calvin often created horrendous scenes with his snowmen). I grew up reading the comic strip in the Sunday paper and started buying the collection books when I noticed them turning up at our local Deseret Industries a few years ago. Today, most of the 18 published collections can be found in our cars, in our bathrooms, on our bookshelves or under our beds. Calvin & Hobbes is read so much, in fact, that the kids have developed several endearing C&H rituals.

On long car trips, the kids will turn down their favorite pages so they'll know where to start when they switch books with each other.

The Goodwin Project

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by Clark (bio)

I just came across this little teaser video about a young family embarking on an around-the-world trip over the course of this next year. They are a surfing family from Kauai with a knack for finding the good in the world. I must say I'm jealous of their project and wish I could join up and be some type of film crew helper-outer or something. So far they have hit up Iceland, Ireland and Israel. Follow them via their blog. I'm looking forward to the finished project but in the meantime their travel blog will tide me over. I need to find me a wife that is down for this sorta jazz. I can't think of a better way to see the world. Disagree with me all you want but I'm as serious as a heart attack.