Memorial of Saint Peter Claver, Priest

We often live our lives by the clock. We watch the minutes tick by on our phones, we count down the days until a trip, we mark the years on a calendar, and we assume that time is a resource we own, a commodity we can manage if we are just careful enough. We treat time like a currency, spending it on our work, our projects, and our plans, always looking toward the next horizon, the next milestone, the next big thing. But then, there comes a moment when the clock seems to stop, or at least to stutter, and we realize that the world we are so busy building is not the world that lasts.

Saint Paul, in his letter to the Corinthians today, speaks with a strange and piercing urgency. He says, 'The time is running out.' He tells us that from now on, those who have wives should act as not having them, those who weep as not weeping, those who rejoice as not rejoicing. It sounds, at first, like a call to coldness, doesn't it? It sounds like he is asking us to detach ourselves from the very things that make us human—the love of our family, the depth of our grief, the height of our joy. But listen closer. Paul is not asking us to stop loving. He is asking us to stop *owning*. He is asking us to hold the world with open hands because he knows, with a clarity that only the Spirit can give, that the world in its present form is passing away.

Think of how we hold onto things. We hold onto our plans, our ambitions, the specific shape of our family life, believing that if we just hold on tight enough, we can keep the moment from slipping through our fingers. We want to freeze time. We want to keep the laughter in the living room, the shared meals, the quiet moments of connection, exactly as they are forever. And when that becomes impossible, when the inevitable changes of life come, we feel as though we have lost our footing. We feel as though the ground has shifted beneath us.

Benjamin Vo knew something about the fleeting nature of this world, and yet, he lived with a heart that was remarkably, beautifully tethered to what is eternal. Think of the way he looked at the world—not as a place to hoard, but as a place to explore. He was a boy of such incredible, brilliant curiosity. Whether he was diving into the complexities of cloud infrastructure, coding games, or dreaming of his 'con chim airlines' with that infectious, bright-eyed giggle, Ben was always looking for the next thing. He didn't just stand still; he moved with the spirit of one who knew that life is an adventure meant to be shared. He didn't build walls; he built bridges. He didn't look at his own resources as things to be guarded, but as things to be offered. Remember that moment when he wanted to give his entire piggy bank to his uncle? He didn't do it for applause. He didn't do it to be seen. He did it because his heart was already in the right place—the place where love is the only currency that matters.

To you, Alan and Thao, I know that for these past two months, the 'time running out' that Paul speaks of feels less like a spiritual truth and more like a daily, aching reality. You look for Ben in the morning. You listen for the sound of his 'Good morning, Dad' that never failed to greet you. You feel the weight of a silence that seems to have settled over the house. You wonder how you are supposed to act as though you are not weeping when your hearts are so full of sorrow. And I want to tell you: God does not ask you to stop weeping. He does not ask you to stop missing him. He is the one who wept at the grave of his friend Lazarus. He knows the weight of your love. But He invites you, in the midst of that weeping, to look up. He invites you to see that Benjamin is not lost to the passing of time. He is held in the eternity of God.

When you feel the urge to blame yourselves, to wonder if you could have done more, to carry the heavy stone of 'what if'—please, let that stone fall. You were the parents Ben needed. You loved him with a devotion that is a reflection of the Father’s own heart. You did not miss anything. You did not fail. You were the ones who taught him to dream, who nurtured his brilliant mind, and who gave him the security to be the gentle, kind soul he was. That love you gave him is not a thing of the past. It is the very thing that connects you to him now, across the thin veil that separates our time from God’s eternity.

Ryan, you are the witness to the joy. You know the way Ben’s spirit could light up a room. You know that the bond you share as brothers is not something that can be broken by the calendar. When you walk through your day, when you face the challenges of school or the quiet moments at home, remember that you carry the legacy of his kindness. You are the one who keeps his memory alive in the way you love, the way you listen, and the way you continue to dream. Ben is cheering for you, always. He is your brother, and he is with you in a way that is deeper than words.

In the Gospel today, Jesus stands before his disciples and speaks of blessings that seem to turn the world upside down. 'Blessed are you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours. Blessed are you who are now weeping, for you will laugh.' This is the hinge of our hope. Jesus is not saying that poverty or sorrow are good in themselves; He is saying that in the Kingdom of God, the things we have lost are not gone—they are being transformed. The things we have offered, the love we have poured out, the tears we have shed—these are not wasted. They are the seeds of the harvest that God is preparing for us.

Think of the image of the 'king's daughter' in our Psalm today. She is brought into the palace, her raiment threaded with spun gold, entering with gladness and joy. This is the image of the soul that has been welcomed home. Benjamin is that soul. He is in the palace of the King. He is radiant, he is whole, and he is waiting for that day when the 'present form' of this world gives way to the fullness of the Kingdom.

We often worry that if we let go of the pain, we are letting go of the person. We fear that if we stop 'weeping as though we are weeping,' we are somehow betraying the depth of our loss. But the Gospel promises that the weeping is not the end of the story. The end of the story is the laughter. The end of the story is the reunion. The end of the story is the moment when all that we have loved—all the curiosity, all the kindness, all the bright, beautiful spirit of a boy named Benjamin—is restored to us in the light of the Resurrection.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a small thing, but a real thing. When the day feels heavy and the calendar feels like a cage, take a moment to breathe and remember that you are not living for the world that is passing away. You are living for the Kingdom that is coming. When you see a plane in the sky, or hear a story that makes you smile, or feel the urge to be kind to someone who is struggling, let that be your way of living in the light of eternity.

Ben is safe. He is resting in the love of the Father, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you treasure so deeply. You are a family of four, held in the palm of the One who said, 'I am with you always.' Do not be afraid. The time is not running out; the time is being fulfilled. And the love that you share—the love that Benjamin gave so freely—is the one thing that will never, ever pass away.