Friday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time

We live in a world that is terribly fond of maps. From the moment we are old enough to understand the shape of a week or the turning of a year, we are handed routes. Go to school. Pass the test. Build the career. Secure the margin. We spend an immense amount of energy studying the terrain of tomorrow, making sure our shoes are laced tightly, our packs are adjusted just so, and our footing is secure against whatever sudden incline the hill might throw at us. We want to know where the path leads before we take the first step. We want a guarantee that the road is straight and the destination is guaranteed.

And yet, there are days when the map we held so carefully turns out to be entirely blank.

Saint Paul, writing to the Corinthians in our first reading today, uses the language of the stadium, the language of the race. He talks about runners and discipline, about training the body and running not aimlessly, but to win the imperishable crown. When we hear those words in the ordinary rush of life, we think of striving. We think of effort, of willpower, of getting our lives in order through sheer determination. We think if we just run hard enough, if we just plan well enough, we can outrun the grief and outsmart the uncertainties that haunt the edges of our days.

Step back for a moment and look at the image Paul gives us: a runner on a track. Not a man wandering lost in a dark forest, but someone running with his eyes fixed on a finish line, driving his body, refusing to shadowbox, refusing to waste a single stride. It is an image of focus. It is an image of a life lived with utter intentionality, where every breath is spent for the sake of something infinitely greater than the dust of this earth.

Benjamin Vo understood that kind of focus, didn't he? Think of the way his brilliant, restless mind worked. Whether he was diving deep into the architecture of cloud infrastructure, exploring the intricate logic of code he built in his GitHub repositories, or tracking the flight paths of Boeing jets with the quiet authority of an aviation expert, Ben didn't live life half-heartedly. He was a boy who leaned into the world. He was the kind of soul who looked at a complex system and wasn't intimidated by it; he was drawn to it. He loved the mechanics of how things worked, the beauty of logic, the sheer thrill of building something from nothing.

And he loved the journey itself. Think of the memories his family holds—not just of books and code screens, but of the wide world. Ben standing high above New York City, waving against the backdrop of skyscrapers; Ben walking through the streets of Seoul, Tokyo, and Paris with his 'perfect four'; Ben giggling over a bowl of spicy Pad Thai in a Bangkok mall, tearing up from the heat but laughing through it because he was simply glad to be there, experiencing it all with his mom, his dad, and his brother Ryan. He was a boy who collected moments the way others collect stones. He ran his race with a bright, open curiosity that refused to stay cooped up.

Then the Gospel breaks in, and Jesus asks us a question that cuts right through our self-assurance. He speaks of the blind leading the blind, of falling into a pit, and then he gives us that sharp, unforgettable image of the wooden beam in our own eye.

We don't like that image very much. We prefer to look at the splinter in someone else's eye—or, if we are honest with ourselves, we prefer to stare at the blind spots in our own history, wondering how we got here.

Let us tell the truth before we try to dress it up in pious language. Two months have passed since Benjamin went home to God, and the silence in the house on certain mornings is heavy enough to touch. Alan and Thao, I know the exact shape of the exhaustion you carry. You wake up, and before the day has even begun, the weight of the missing presence settles on your chest. You look at the shoes by the door, you see the empty chair at the table, and a quiet, persistent whisper begins to echo in the dark corners of your mind: *Could we have done something different? Did we miss a sign? Was there a turn we failed to make?*

That is the beam in our own eye. It is the terrible, crushing human instinct to take the random, incomprehensible sorrows of this broken world and try to blame ourselves for them. We comb through the past like detectives looking for a clue we missed. We torture ourselves with 'what ifs' and midnight regrets.

Hear this clearly today: you missed nothing. You are not to blame.

Illness is never a punishment, and it is never the fault of those who loved and cared for the one who suffered. Some sorrows in this life come completely beyond human control—they do not arise from any habit, any care given or missed, anything a human body did or did not do. No amount of watchfulness could have prevented them. God does not accuse you, and He does not permit you to accuse yourselves. Lift that stone right now and let it fall from your hands. You loved Benjamin with a devotion that mirrored the heart of the Father. You gave him your life, your laughter, your travels, your endless patience, and your fierce protection. You were the exact parents he needed.

And Jesus says to us today: *Remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly.*

What is that beam? It is the illusion that we are supposed to be the masters of life and death, the ones who hold the universe together by our vigilance. Once we let go of that impossible, crushing pride—once we admit that we are frail, broken, and utterly dependent on grace—something miraculous happens. The fog lifts. The self-blame melts away. And we begin to see clearly.

What do we see when the fog clears?

We see a boy who loved so deeply that his heart overflowed into the lives of everyone around him. Think of that quiet, stunning moment when fifteen-year-old Ben unprompted, told his parents he was willing to give up his entire piggy bank to help his uncle William, who was suffering from strokes. He didn't break it open; he didn't need to make a show of it. The offer itself was the truth of who he was. A boy whose first instinct, when someone he loved was hurting, was to empty everything he had to help them. Where does a child learn a heart like that? He learns it in a home where love is given without counting the cost.

And Ryan, my dear brother, you know that heart better than anyone. You stood shoulder to shoulder with Ben—building memories, sharing games, traveling the world, and facing life as best friends. When robotics class feels too quiet, when the hallway at home feels empty, remember that the bond between brothers is stronger than death. Benjamin is not a memory fading in the dark; he is alive in the brilliant, unshadowed light of the Kingdom. He is cheering for you with that same bright, braces-filled smile, watching over you, whispering through the quiet moments to keep dreaming, keep building, keep moving forward.

Look at the Psalm we sang today: *How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord, mighty God! Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest in which she puts her young—your altars, O Lord of hosts.*

Benjamin has found his nest. He is safe in the dwelling place of the Most High. Think of those dreams his father and family have held—the dreams where Ben appears, healthy, free, running in the sunlight, telling his dad, 'Ba ơi, test nào con cũng qua hết... Không sao đâu, con sẽ dõi theo ba mẹ.' 'Dad, I passed every test. Don't worry, I will watch over mom and dad.'

He is watching over you. Not with sorrow, but with the peace of heaven. He is at the Banquet, perhaps imagining the flight paths of celestial airlines far beyond any Boeing 737, resting in the gentle embrace of Our Lady Mary and the merciful heart of Jesus.

So what do you carry out the door today?

Not a heavier burden. Not the crushing stone of self-blame. You carry out the door one simple, doable thing: the next time the wave of grief hits you unannounced in the middle of the day, do not fight it and do not blame yourself. Just take a deep breath, close your eyes for five seconds, and whisper his name into the light: *Ben, you are safe with God.*

And let the peace that surpasses all understanding flood your tired hearts. You are a family of four—held in hands that will never let you go, now and forever. Amen.