Friday of the Twenty-fifth Week in Ordinary Time

We often think of time as a relentless march—a ticking clock that measures out our days, our achievements, and eventually, our limits. We look at our calendars, our schedules, our to-do lists, and we feel the pressure of the 'appointed time.' In the first reading today, the author of Ecclesiastes gives voice to the rhythm of human existence. He speaks of a time to be born, a time to die, a time to weep, and a time to laugh. It is a beautiful, haunting list that acknowledges the seasons of our lives. But he adds something crucial: God has 'put the timeless into their hearts.'

Think about that for a moment. We are creatures of time, bound by the sunset and the sunrise, yet we carry within us a longing for the eternal. We feel the ache of the passing shadow, as the Psalm says, but we also feel the tug of something that never passes away. We are like travelers who know we are just passing through, yet we are constantly looking for a home that feels permanent. We see this in the simple, everyday ways we try to capture the world. We take photos of a sunset, we record the voice of a loved one, we hold onto a memory because we intuitively know that beauty is meant to last, even when the moment itself slips through our fingers.

Benjamin Vo understood this. He was a boy who lived with one foot in the world of the future and one foot in the eternal present. He had that brilliant, analytical mind—the one that could code games, navigate cloud infrastructure, and dream of 'con chim airlines'—but he also had the heart of a poet. He was a boy who looked at the horizon not just to see where it ended, but to see where it led. He was a student of the world, a traveler who left his footprints across the globe, always curious, always seeking, always connecting. He didn't just pass through life; he engaged with it. He looked at the world with a sense of wonder that is the hallmark of a soul that knows it is made for more than just the dust.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, the 'time to weep' has felt like the only season you have known. You look at the empty chair, you look at the photos—perhaps that one of Ben sitting on the wooden bench, his braces showing in a bright, wide smile, with little girls hugging him from behind—and you feel the weight of the silence. You wonder about the 'appointed time.' You wonder why the clock stopped when it did. But do not let the silence of the house deceive you into thinking that the story has ended. The 'timeless' that God placed in Ben’s heart is the very thing that connects him to you now. That love is not a memory; it is a living, breathing reality in the presence of God. It is the thread that keeps the tapestry of your family intact, even when the pattern seems broken to our limited human eyes.

Ryan, my dear brother, you know the rhythm of Ben’s heart better than anyone. You know the laughter, the shared secrets, the way he looked at you with that quiet, steady affection. When you feel the absence of his voice, remember that you are the one who carries his legacy into the future. You are the one who continues to dream, who continues to build, who continues to live for the both of you. When you feel the weight of the world, remember that you are not just a brother who is left behind; you are a brother who is walking forward with his heart inside your own. Keep being the boy who knows that love is stronger than time. Keep the wonder alive. That is how you honor him. That is how you live in the light.

In the Gospel today, Jesus asks his disciples, 'Who do you say that I am?' It is a question that cuts through the noise of the crowds, the opinions of the world, and the confusion of the moment. He is asking for an anchor. Peter answers, 'The Christ of God.' It is the only answer that holds. Jesus then speaks of his own suffering, his own death, and his own resurrection. He shows them that the path to glory goes through the valley of the shadow. He shows them that God’s 'appointed time' is not a trap, but a doorway. He is the One who has already walked the road of suffering and come out the other side into the light of the Resurrection. He is the One who is holding Benjamin now in that same light.

I want to speak to those of you who might be carrying a heavy, hidden stone of self-reproach. Maybe you find yourself replaying the past, wondering if you missed a sign, or if you could have done more. Please, hear this truth today: God does not send these seasons of sorrow as a punishment, and He does not hold you responsible for the mysteries of life that are beyond human control. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were the family he loved. You did not miss anything. You are not being accused by God, and you must not accuse yourselves. Let that stone fall. You are free to grieve, you are free to miss him, but you are not required to carry the burden of 'what if.' That is a weight that belongs to the past, and Christ has already stepped into the future to welcome Benjamin home. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him.

There is a profound, healing truth in the Psalm we prayed: 'Blessed be the LORD, my rock, my mercy and my fortress.' When the world feels like a shifting shadow, when the 'time to mourn' feels like it will never yield to a 'time to dance,' lean on the Rock. Do not try to solve the mystery of time. Do not try to reconcile the 'why' with the 'when.' Just rest in the 'Who.' The 'Who' is Jesus, and He is the one who promised, 'I will not leave you orphans.' He is the one who is even now preparing a place for you, a place where the seasons of weeping are over, and where the joy of the reunion will be eternal.

Think of the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam, that clean, life-sustaining water flowing in Ben’s name. It is a perfect image of his life. It is not a closed system; it is a source of life that keeps giving. His kindness, his empathy—the way he offered his piggy bank to help his uncle, the way he loved his family—that love is still flowing. It is still quenching the thirst of the poor. It is still bringing hope to the weary. His life was a gift that continues to unfold. You are the stewards of that gift. Every act of kindness you do, every time you choose to love instead of despair, you are keeping his spirit alive and flowing into the world.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a simple thing, but a profound one. When the weight of the 'appointed time' feels too heavy, when the silence feels too loud, do not look for answers in the calendar. Look for the presence in the 'Who.' When you see a plane in the sky, when you see a bird in flight, when you feel a sudden, warm memory of his smile, whisper his name, and then whisper the name of Jesus. Let those two names be your anchor. You are a family of four, and you are being led, step by step, through the darkness and into the light. The reunion is certain. And in the meantime, keep walking in the presence of God, in the light of the living. He is there, he is waiting, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile. You are not walking alone. You are walking toward the Banquet, where all the laborers are gathered, where all the tears are wiped away, and where the love you shared will bloom forever. Amen.