Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary

We often think of beginnings as small, quiet things. We imagine them as seeds tucked into the dark earth, or the first light of dawn creeping across a windowsill. When we look at the genealogy in today’s Gospel, we see a long, winding road of names—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David. It is a list of human history, marked by triumphs and failings, by long journeys and sudden turns. And yet, at the very end of that long, dusty road, we find a new beginning: 'Of her was born Jesus who is called the Christ.'

Today, we celebrate the birth of Mary. We celebrate the moment God began to prepare the way for His Son. Think of the smallness of it. A child born to parents who loved her, in a world that was waiting for a promise to be kept. It reminds me of the way we look back on the life of someone we love dearly. We look at the photos—the bright, braced smile, the way he stood with his arm around his brother, the sheer, infectious joy of a summer evening—and we realize that those moments were not just passing time. They were the building blocks of a legacy of love.

Benjamin Vo was a boy who understood the beauty of a beginning. Think of his passion for aviation, his fascination with the Boeing 737, his dream of 'con chim airlines.' He was always looking toward the horizon, always imagining how to connect one place to another, how to lift off and soar. He had a brilliant, analytical mind, yes, but he also had a heart that was always ready for the next adventure, always curious about what lay beyond the next cloud. He didn't just exist in the world; he engaged with it, he studied it, he loved it.

To you, Alan and Thao, I know the silence of these past two months feels like a long, unbroken stretch of sky where a plane has suddenly disappeared from the radar. You look for him in the morning, you listen for the sound of his voice, and you feel the weight of a void that no amount of logic can fill. You wonder about the 'why' of the flight path. But today, the Church invites us to look at the Nativity of Mary. Mary’s birth was the beginning of a life that would eventually stand at the foot of the Cross, a life that would know the deepest sorrow, yet remain anchored in the promise of God. She was the one who said 'Yes' when everything else was uncertain.

I want you to know that your 'Yes'—the love you poured into Benjamin, the way you nurtured his curiosity, the way you listened to his stories about his 'con chim airlines' until he giggled with pure delight—that 'Yes' is not lost. It is part of the story of salvation. You were the ones who taught him how to look at the world with wonder. You were the ones who gave him the wings to dream. And though his time here was short, the altitude he reached in his capacity to love was immense.

Ryan, you are the co-pilot of those memories. You know the way your brother’s eyes lit up when he talked about his projects. You know the way he stood beside you, not just as a brother, but as a best friend. When the world feels quiet, remember that you are carrying his light. You are the one who keeps the stories alive. You are the one who knows that the bond you share is not severed by distance or time. It is a bond that is held in the hand of the Creator. Ben is cheering for you, Ryan. He is watching over you with that same bright smile, encouraging you to keep dreaming, to keep building, to keep flying.

There is a profound truth in the prophet Micah’s words today: 'You, Bethlehem-Ephrathah, too small to be among the clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel.' God often chooses the small, the overlooked, the 'too small' places to do His greatest work. He chose a small town for the Messiah, and He chose a young girl named Mary to be the mother of the Savior. He chooses our fragile, human lives—our brief years, our small joys, our quiet sorrows—to be the vessels of His eternal love.

Benjamin’s life was a testament to this. He was a boy who, in his fifteen years, touched more of the world than many do in a lifetime. He was a traveler, a coder, a brother, a son. He was a boy who, in a moment of pure, unprompted grace, wanted to give his own savings to help his uncle. He didn't need to be asked. He didn't need a lecture. His heart was already aligned with the heart of God. That offer, that desire to give everything he had, is the heartbeat of the Gospel. It is the 'new wine' that Jesus speaks of. It is the love that reaches to the ends of the earth.

To all of you who are grieving, who are walking through the dark, who are wondering if the morning will ever feel bright again: look at the Nativity of Mary. Look at how God brings light out of the quiet, how He builds a kingdom out of the small and the simple. You are not walking alone. You are being held by the same God who watched over Mary, the same God who is holding Benjamin in the palm of His hand right now. He is the God of the beginning and the end, the God who turns our tears into a story of hope.

What do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. When you feel the ache of missing him, don't try to hide it. Instead, let it be a reminder of how deeply you loved. Let it be a reminder that your love is a reflection of the Father’s love. Every time you see a plane in the sky, or hear a story, or share a laugh with someone you love, breathe a prayer of gratitude for the life of Benjamin. Let his memory be a gentle wind that lifts your spirit. You are a family of four, held in the embrace of the One who is with us always, even to the end of the age. Ben is safe, he is whole, and he is waiting for you at the banquet of heaven. Rest in that. Breathe in that. And know that you are loved beyond measure.