Monday of the Twenty-sixth Week in Ordinary Time

We often think of our lives as a carefully constructed flight plan. We map out the waypoints, we calculate the fuel, and we trust that if we follow the coordinates—if we are good, if we are smart, if we are careful—we will reach the destination we have envisioned. We look at our children, like Benjamin, and we see a flight plan that is so full of promise, so rich with the potential for altitude and horizon. We see the brilliant mind, the curiosity that reaches toward the clouds, and the gentle heart that navigates the turbulence of life with grace. And then, the flight path changes. The weather shifts in ways we did not choose and could not have predicted. We find ourselves in a place we never intended to land, staring at a silence that feels like a question without an answer.

In the first reading today, we encounter Job. He is a man who had everything—a life built on the bedrock of faith and family—and in a single, terrifying sequence of events, he loses it all. The messengers come one after another, each bringing news of ruin: the livestock taken, the servants slain, the children lost to the wind. It is a scene of utter, devastating loss. And what does Job do? He tears his cloak, he cuts his hair, and he falls to the ground. He does not offer a theological explanation. He does not try to justify the ways of God. He simply speaks the raw, honest truth of his humanity: 'Naked I came forth from my mother's womb, and naked shall I go back again. The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD!'

There is a profound, aching honesty in those words. Job is not being stoic; he is being real. He is naming the reality of the loss while simultaneously anchoring himself in the reality of God. He is teaching us that faith is not the absence of grief, but the ability to hold onto the hand of God while the ground beneath us is shaking. He reminds us that our lives are not our own to possess; they are gifts entrusted to us for a time, and the Giver remains the Giver even when the gift is returned to the source of all light.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, your hearts have been living in the space between that 'giving' and that 'taking.' You look at the photos—perhaps that one of Ben and Ryan sitting in the church, with the stained glass casting its warm, colored light around them—and you feel the weight of the silence. You remember the way Ben would giggle when he talked about 'con chim airlines,' his dream of taking to the skies. You remember the way he would look at you with that quiet, steady love. And you wonder how to reconcile that vibrant, brilliant spirit with the quiet of his absence. You are doing the holy work of Job. You are mourning, you are grieving, and yet you are still blessing the name of the Lord. That is not a small thing. That is the greatest act of love a parent can offer.

I want to address something that often sits in the shadows of a heart, especially when we have walked the road you are walking. There is a temptation, in the quiet of the night, to look back at the past and wonder if you missed a sign, or if you could have done more. I want to lift that stone from your hearts today. Illness is never a punishment, and it is never the fault of those who loved and cared for the one who suffered. God does not send these sorrows, 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 cherished. 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 dust, 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.

In the Gospel today, the disciples are arguing about who among them is the greatest. They are caught up in the vanity of the world, trying to measure their worth by the standards of human achievement. And what does Jesus do? He does not lecture them. He does not offer a complex philosophical argument. He takes a child and places it by his side. He shows them that the greatness of the Kingdom is not found in the power we wield or the logic we master, but in the vulnerability we embrace. 'Whoever receives this child in my name receives me,' he says.

Benjamin was that child. He was a boy who possessed a brilliant, analytical mind—he could code, he could understand the complexities of cloud infrastructure, he could dream of airlines—but he was also a boy who knew the value of a simple, gentle heart. Think of that moment when he offered his entire piggy bank to help his uncle. He didn't break it, he didn't empty it, he didn't make a show of it. He simply offered. He was a boy who understood that the true currency of the Kingdom is not gold or achievement, but the willingness to give of oneself. He was a boy who lived the truth that Jesus spoke: that the least among us is the greatest.

Ryan, my dear brother, you are the one who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart better than anyone. You are the one who saw the 'con chim airlines' dreams, who heard the giggles, who shared the everyday life of being a brother. When you feel the loneliness, 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. You are the one who keeps his curiosity alive. Keep being the boy who knows that love is not a thing you lose, but a thing you carry. When you look at the world, when you build, when you create, you are carrying his light into the future. You are the guardian of his memory, and you are the one who is showing the world what it looks like to love a brother with an eternal love.

There is a beautiful, piercing invitation in the Psalm: 'Incline your ear to me and hear my word.' It is a prayer for connection. It is a request for God to draw near to us in our distress. And the promise of the Psalm is that He does. He is the savior of those who flee to Him for refuge. Benjamin has found that refuge. He is at the Banquet of Heaven, resting in the light of Christ, where there is no more pain, no more struggle, and no more silence. He is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile, that same quiet, steady love. He is not far away. He is as close as the next breath, as close as the memory that warms your heart, as close as the love you continue to share in his name.

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 wanted 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. You are the ones who are showing us what it looks like to be faithful in the middle of the mystery.

So, what do you carry out the door today? It is a simple thing, but a profound one. When the world feels like it is just a cycle of vanity, when the silence feels too loud, do not look for answers in the 'why.' Look for the presence in the 'Who.' Whisper his name, and then whisper the name of Jesus. Let those two names be your anchor. You are a family that is being held. You are a family that is being led. You are not just passing through the days; you are moving toward a reunion that is as certain as the rising sun.

Take this with you: you are never walking alone. You have a brother in heaven who is cheering for you, who is praying for you, and who is waiting for you at the end of the flight. Live for him, yes—but live for the One who gave him to you, and who has now called him home. Keep the 'Well of Love' flowing. Keep the kindness moving. Keep the dream alive. And when the evening comes, and you feel the weight of the day, remember the words of the Psalm: 'Incline your ear to me and hear my word.' That ear is always inclined toward you. That heart is always open to you. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him. And one day, in the fullness of time, you will see that smile again, and the flight will be complete. Amen.