For over 33 years, a seemingly random phrase has ricocheted around in my head over and over and over (and over) again:

“But there is the Mutara Nebula at one five three mark four.”

Sometimes, I accidentally say it out loud, and my wife, Angela, asks me what I’m mumbling about. Of course, I’m too embarrassed to tell her the truth. I’m a closet geek, and I’m afraid if she learns of it, she might finally leave me.

Sometimes, those fictional stellar coordinates might only cross my mind a few times a day. It’s even possible that there have been a few days over these many years when they haven’t entered into my thoughts at all. But on many days — and I mean this quite literally — that phrase has echoed through my mind dozens if not hundreds of times. Like a scratched record, a damaged hard drive, or a mind-meld gone terribly wrong, that single random line from an increasingly ancient sci-fi flick has somehow become irrevocably seared into my subconsciousness.

The year was 1982. The movie was Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.

As a Catholic grade school student, I never cared much for Star Trek. I was more of a Star Wars kid. Star Trek was way too cerebral for me. My best friend Martin tried to convince me of Trek’s many intellectual advantages, but my youthful appetite preferred dramatic explosions, lightsaber battles and catchy John Williams tempos over Trek’s more modest interplanetary conundrums.

But 13 is an impressionable age. For ‘normal’ kids of my generation, that coming-of-age movie moment might have been lifted from The Breakfast Club or Sixteen Candles. But for me, it happened to be Star Trek II.

But what in God’s name is wrong with me? Why in the world has this one strange clause haunted my thoughts for over three decades, repeating itself in my mind sometimes a hundred times a day? Why that line? It wasn’t particularly powerful, pivotal or poignant.

But there is the Mutara Nebula at one five three mark four…

Does anyone else suffer from this kind of bizarre mental affliction? Does anyone else’s mind latch onto some random snippet of data from their youth and tenaciously refuse to let it go? Is it just some random biological glitch? A defective cluster of brain cells that repeatedly fire errant and terribly outdated data down the pipeline of my consciousness?

But there is the Mutara Nebula at one five three mark four…

Or is there some hidden meaning? Is there some reason that this particular phrase became lodged so deeply in my skull, and will no doubt continue to haunt my thoughts until the day I die? Are the coordinates intended to lead me somewhere? Was I somehow sending an encrypted message to my future self?

I’ve asked myself this question many, many times over the years, but never more than I’ve pondered it today, after learning that Leonard Nimoy has passed away.

But there is the Mutara Nebula at one five three mark four…

What was it about that singular moment in cinematic time that left such a deep and permanent scar on my young mind? What could it possibly mean? In the film, that line was spoken at a particularly dire moment when everything seemed hopeless. The Enterprise had been badly crippled during an atrocious surprise attack — one that killed countless young crew members and rendered almost everything on the ship inoperable. It was now only a matter of time before the merciless Khan tracked down the limping vessel and exacted his revenge.

“But there is the Mutara Nebula at one five three mark four,” said Spock.

A thick cosmic soup where stars are born and die, the nearby nebula offered a sliver of hope — a place where the Enterprise might be able to hide, if only for a moment. The nebula represented a safe haven; a place to regroup and mend wounds. A fighting chance. Spock had bought them all just a little more time….

A few theatrical minutes later, Captain Kirk and his battered crew had miraculously eluded Khan’s wrath, but not without paying a heavy price. Kirk’s best friend, Spock, was dead, sacrificing his own life to save everyone else. It doesn’t really matter what happened in the subsequent movies. For me, Spock died that day, never to be resurrected.

A lonely, awkward thirteen-year-old sat in that dark movie theater in Cullman, Alabama and quietly cried, mourning the loss of a person that he didn’t even know he cared for.

I left the movie theater that night with a deeper appreciation of what it means to have friends. For the first time, I realized that friendship — true friendship — wasn’t just sitting at the same lunch room table or hanging out with someone during recess. True friendship sometimes demands sacrifice, and true friendship transcends all time, space and circumstances. Today, even though I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like, I’m still very blessed to call Martin my best friend… for 40 years and counting. And I’m further blessed to be surrounded by other close friends that I’ve now had the honor of knowing for 30 years or more.

Much like the young boy who cried when Spock died, tonight I cried for Leonard. I cried for the passage of time, and the inevitable passage of friends. And I smile in appreciation to my thirteen-year-old self for carrying a message that I have now received: Even in one’s darkest moments, where there is friendship, there is hope.

Thank you for the many life lessons, Mr. Nimoy. I wish we had more time. Good night and safe travels…. Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.