Tribute to Nels

Even though it’s been nearly twenty years or so, my memory is crowded with time spent with Nels. We hiked together, mountain biked together, skied together, water-skied together, snow-mobiled together, went to lots of high school dances together, roofed together, gardened together, but mostly we just spent a lot of time together. He was the reason that I passed my BC AP Calculus test. We decided that we were going to study every night together, and we about did that. I remember we were in my room studying, trying to figure out the essence of the derivative, and it just wasn’t clicking. My mom kept coming up and saying, “We have a rule—no boys in Margaret’s room.” But we were too engrossed in our calculus problem to give her much heed. After several reminders, we reluctantly made our way downstairs and re-started on the problem, and miraculously, we figured it out! My mom gloated, and we laughed. He was the reason that I now know how to get out juice stains. One time when he was over at my house he, as he was wont to do, grabbed a juice box out of our pantry—a grape juice box in fact. It must have been a Sunday, because he was wearing a nice white dress shirt, and as he went to pop the straw in the grape juice exploded all over him. I still remember his amused and delighted look on his face—but then he called his mom and figured out how to get the stain out (hot water on it, right away—I still remember that laundry tip!). He was the reason that I couldn’t keep a straight face during a performance as “Nellie Forbush” in Olympus’s production of South Pacific. I was on stage and he was in the orchestra pit, playing the viola. During one of the crucial final scenes, my character says, “This is emotional,” which was in fact a pretty silly line, and I remember looking down at Nels in the pit and he was looking up at me and chuckling. I had to try very hard to stay in character.

We spent a lot of time outdoors—for him, being outdoors was exhilarating, and it became exhilarating for everyone with him as well. I remember cruising down Millcreek canyon at high speed on our bikes and riding on a snowmobile so fast that I fell off the back! I remember picking him up one day to go skiing—and he just raised his hands in the air with sheer exuberance at the sunny, crisp day. Perhaps it was the same day that we skied in fresh powder. I wore powder cords, but he was confident he did not need them, and then, lost a ski in the powder. But this incident did not kill his enthusiasm at all—he seemed almost thrilled with the notion that he’d actually lost his ski! And he just skied down to the bottom of the hill on one ski and that was that. I seem to recall that he went back up there in the summer to see if he could retrieve his ski—just for the adventure of it—but I don’t remember if he ever found it.

Sometimes this enthusiasm led to less than perfect planning. I remember a time when he organized a whole group of us to cross-country ski into this cabin of a friend of his. He was so excited about this adventure. We were all carrying huge bags of food (including a big bag of potatoes!) that we were planning on cooking when we arrived. He said it would just be a short ski in…, and when the cabin continued to not materialize, it was somehow always going to be “just around the corner, Mar.” Well, after several hours of skiing in and with darkness engulfing us, we finally saw a faint light ahead so all of us, exhausted, but now hopeful, endured a few more minutes of skiing, and then, the faint light wasn’t even the right cabin! We finally turned around and headed home. Another time like this was driving one night in the Paulsen “love chariot.” Now this old clunker was unique for two reasons: 1) the ignition was so worn down that one did not need a key to start the car; 2) the gas gauge was broken, and one could never be sure how low the gas was, and so to avert any disaster, the love chariot always carried an extra can of gas in its trunk. But the plan was not foolproof: on one occasion Nels and I were driving my little sister Rachel somewhere and we were driving uphill. Well, the gas ran out. But Nels calmly pulled over and matter-of-factly went to the trunk to retrieve the gas. At this point, he realized he did not have the key to open the trunk, because he had not used a key to start the engine! I think the rest of that night involved a lot of walking…

Nels did not operate like most people operate. This meant that he would do things like get into a car and do reckless donuts around a church parking lot with me screaming. And it also meant he would experiment with driving my “red rat” car while nearly lying flat, and while encouraging me to sing radio songs because the red rat radio only featured AM. And it meant sleeping over at Rockport reservoir so we could be the first ones on the water in the morning. But this also meant that he believed in things like “paying it forward.” I remember once he bought a pair of waterski gloves that turned out to be flawed and so he needed to get a new pair. So we went to the store together and he got another pair, and I said, “Aren’t you going to return the gloves for a refund?” And he said, “No, I figure if I let them keep the money, it will eventually come back to me somehow.” It also meant that he was merciful to people when others weren’t and he was compassionate when others weren’t. And it meant that he did not have the ego that most people have. Given my own proclivities with being judgmental and egotistical, being his friend was transformational for me.

One of the turning points in my life occurred because of Nels. I had just had some disappointment—an award that I wanted that I didn’t get, an achievement I didn’t achieve. It was a warm summer night, and as we walked together, I described my disappointment. He explained to me that one doesn’t derive self-esteem from all our accomplishments; rather, we get our self-worth from knowing that we are sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. Surely I had been taught about my “divine nature” in church, but this was a watershed moment for me: I could be someone of value simply because I was a daughter of Heavenly Father. And furthermore, he explained, all the gifts we have come from Heavenly Father anyway. “What about your viola playing,” I queried. “You are the one who practices.” “Yes,” he replied, “but even my motivation to practice comes from Heavenly Father.” This whole concept rocked my world, and has stayed with me ever since.

Nels was a breath of fresh air and rarity among people. He was pure, carefree and always exuded love and cheer. And he was authentic. Because of this, he elicited an authenticity from everyone he touched. I know he did from me. This was one of his greatest gifts he gave me—teaching me how to be authentic and helping me to understand who the real “me” was. And this is why I loved him. His was one of the most important friendships of my life. I am so very grateful that I had the privilege of knowing and loving him. I miss you, Nels.

Love, Mar