Come with me
I’ve loved Star Wars for as long as I can remember. Like most kids, it started with the cool stuff. Lightsabers. X-Wings. The music. The fact that every kid wanted to swing a stick around while making lightsaber noises.
But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized the reason I keep coming back to Star Wars isn’t because of the battles.
It’s because of Darth Vader.
Which probably says more about me than I’d like to admit.
Most people want to be Luke Skywalker.
Me? I’ve always related more to Vader. Not the whole “choking people because they screwed up at work” part. HR tends to frown on that.
I mean the conflict.
I’ve always been the type of guy who wants to be a hard ass. I want people to think nothing bothers me. I’ll crack a joke before admitting something actually hurt. I’ll bury feelings under sarcasm because that’s easier than talking about them.
Deep down, though, that’s never really been me.
I’m a husband. I’m a dad. I care about my friends. I root for people. I probably get sentimental way more than I’d ever admit in public.
That’s why Vader always fascinated me.
Everyone remembers him as one of the greatest villains ever, but underneath the helmet he’s just a guy who convinced himself that shutting people out made him stronger. In the end, the thing that finally breaks through all that anger isn’t power.
It’s love.
His son reminds him who he really is.
That always hit me.
Which brings me to the name Luke.
Long before I was married, I knew if I ever had a son, I wanted to name him Luke. Not because it was unique. Not because it sounded cool. Because of what Luke represented.
Hope.
The belief that no one is beyond redemption. That even the most stubborn person can change. Then our first son came along.
It came down to Andrew…or Luke.
Folks, I campaigned.
I politicked harder than Brandon Beane trying to get Sean McDermott fired.
I gave the speech.
I presented exhibits.
I probably had a closing argument worthy of a courtroom drama.
And…
I got vetoed.
It happens.
Truthfully, Andrew is a great name. We both loved it. More importantly, Andy was our rainbow baby. After everything we’d been through, we honestly thought he was going to be our one and only. It felt right.So while I lost the naming rights like New Era to Highmark, I definitely won something much bigger.
Then life threw us another surprise.
We were having another boy.
Suddenly, I started hearing the Star Wars theme in my head. This wasn’t just another chance. This was…
A New Hope.
My wife, however, decided she wasn’t going to make this easy on me.
For nine months she made me sweat.
“We’ll decide when we meet him,” which is exactly what we did last time when I was vetoed.
Nine.
Long.
Months.
So I did what any mature husband would do.
I rejected every other name.
Every single one.
Cameron?
“Nope. We ain’t naming after that weirdo last name on Growing Pains”
Harrison?
“I mean, I love Harrison Ford…but we ain’t calling him Harry for short.”
Mason?
“I know too many dads whose kids are named mason?”
Domink?
“I went to school with that kid and he was weird. Absolutely not. And another guy forced a trade out of Buffalo”
Sebastian?
“Well, my dad is kind of an idiot and my mom hates him and won’t forgive us if we name him after her husband.”
By the end, I think everyone realized I wasn’t really considering alternatives. There was only one name I’d been carrying around for decades.
Then came Day 2 of TBD baby’s life… C-Section went great. He’s a fat baby. Mom is doing well. I look like a dope. But there’s no name..
We wanted to wait until mommy wasn’t drugged out anymore. The moment of truth was here..
I knew it was time to make one final push.
I had packed a Darth Vader “I Am Your Father” T-shirt specifically for the occasion. This was going to be my closing argument. I was going to walk into that hospital room wearing it and make my case one last time.
As I went to change, my wife—always the sly one—said, “Hey, can you grab my suitcase?”
No problem.
I handed it to her.
She unzipped it, reached inside, smiled, and said, “Here’s the shirt you should wear.”
She pulled out a shirt that simply read:
Your boy broke down.
I completely lost it.
After all the speeches. After all the politicking. After getting vetoed the first time. After waiting nine long months while rejecting every other name that came across the table…
She had already made the shirt. The decision had been made. Hope had won. And yes, before anyone asks… He will never be called Lucas by me.
He’s Luke.
Always has been. Always will be. Did I absolutely say “Luke..son…come with me” when I picked him out of the bassinet and played the throne room song on Spotify?
Oh..you know I did.
Looking back, I don’t think it was ever just about Star Wars. It was about what that name meant to me.
Because the older I get, the more I realize I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to be Vader. Trying to be tough.
Trying to convince myself I don’t need people. Trying to hide behind jokes and stubbornness.
But every year I become a little less like Vader in the black armor and a little more like the man underneath who realizes love isn’t weakness.
My boys did that.
My wife did that.
They remind me every day that you don’t have to pretend to be the toughest guy in the room. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is tell the people you love that you love them.
That’s the lesson I took from Star Wars. And every time I will say my boys’ names—Andy and Luke—I smile. Andy reminds me that life doesn’t always go according to plan. Luke reminds me that sometimes, after years of waiting…
A New Hope really does arrive.
Aw this is so good! I love you guys. Mel is a star.
You. des. erve. it. 👏👏-👏👏👏 You. des. erve. it. 👏👏-👏👏👏 You. des. erve. it. 👏👏-👏👏👏