Memorial of Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus, Virgin and Doctor of the Church

We often think of the spiritual life as a grand, complicated architecture. We imagine that to be close to God, we must build something enormous—a tower of logic, a fortress of certainty, or perhaps a long, winding road of heavy penance. We look at the world, at its vastness and its noise, and we feel like small, wandering travelers trying to find the right path through a thick, dark forest. But today, the Church gives us a different image. On this feast of Saint Thérèse, the 'Little Flower,' the horizon of our faith suddenly shrinks, not to make it smaller, but to make it intimate. It shrinks to the size of a single, steady gaze.

Look at Job in our first reading. He is sitting in the dust, surrounded by the ruins of everything he held dear. He is a man who has been stripped of his comfort, his status, and his security. And yet, in the middle of that profound, crushing silence, he makes a declaration that echoes through the centuries: 'I know that my Vindicator lives, and that he will at last stand forth upon the dust; Whom I myself shall see: my own eyes, not another’s, shall behold him.' Job isn't looking for a theory. He isn't looking for an explanation for why the world is the way it is. He is looking for a Person. He is looking for the One who knows him by name.

There is a profound, quiet strength in that. Job tells us that even when the world feels like nothing but dust, there is a Vindicator—a Redeemer—who is standing right there in the middle of it. He is not far off in the clouds. He is in the very place where we feel the most broken. And the promise is that one day, the veil will be pulled back, and we will see Him. Not through the eyes of a saint, not through the theology of a scholar, but with our own eyes. It is a promise of a reunion that is as real as the air we breathe.

I want you to think about how Benjamin lived his life. He was a boy of such brilliant, focused curiosity. He was the kind of person who looked at a complex system—whether it was a line of code, an AWS infrastructure, or the flight path of a Boeing 737—and he didn't just see the mechanics. He saw the potential. He saw the beauty of how things were meant to work. He lived with a spirit that was always looking for the ‘why’ and the ‘how,’ always eager to see the next horizon. And he did it with such a gentle, steady heart. He was a boy who understood that the world was a place of exploration, a place to be understood and loved.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, the world has felt like it has lost its map. You remember the way Ben would talk about 'con chim airlines.' You remember the way he would giggle when he talked about those planes, his eyes bright with the sheer joy of the dream. That wasn't just a hobby. That was a reflection of a soul that was meant for flight. It was a reflection of a boy who knew that there was more to life than the ground beneath our feet. And now, he has reached the destination he was always pointing toward. He is not in the dust. He is in the light. He is standing in the presence of the Vindicator, and he is seeing the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.

There is a temptation, when we are grieving, to think that we have been left behind in the dark. We feel the absence of the smile, the silence of the morning greeting, the empty chair at the table. But the Gospel today gives us a different perspective. Jesus sends out the seventy-two, and what is the first thing He tells them to do? 'Into whatever house you enter, first say, "Peace to this household."' He tells them to carry peace like a lantern. He tells them that the Kingdom of God is at hand. It is not something we have to wait for; it is something we are invited to bring into every room we enter.

Ryan, you are the one who carries that peace now. You are the brother who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart. You know the secrets of the games he coded, the joy he found in the simple things, the way he looked at the world with wonder. When you walk into a room, you are carrying that legacy. You are carrying the curiosity, the kindness, and the love that you and Ben shared. You are not a brother who is walking alone. You are a brother who is walking with the strength of a love that has already arrived at the destination. Keep being the boy who is curious. Keep being the brother who knows that love is the only thing that actually lasts. You are a family of four, and that will never change. You are just living in two different rooms of the same house, and the door between them is held open by the grace of Christ.

I want to speak very gently to the ache that sometimes visits you in the quiet of the night. There is a weight that parents often carry, a stone of 'what if' or 'did I miss something.' I want to lift that stone from you today. You were the parents Benjamin needed. You were his sanctuary. You were the ones who nurtured that brilliant, curious, gentle spirit. You did not miss anything. God does not look at your son’s life and find it lacking, and He does not look at your care for him and find it wanting. You are not being accused. You are being held. 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 self-reproach. That is a weight that has no place in the kingdom of God.

Think of the way Saint Thérèse lived. She called it her 'Little Way.' She didn't try to do great, heroic things in the eyes of the world. She did small things with great love. She understood that the smallest act of kindness—a smile, a prayer, a word of comfort—was enough to touch the heart of God. Benjamin lived his own version of this. 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. That offer was a prayer. It was a sign of a heart that was already aligned with the heart of Jesus.

We are on this earth, as the Psalm says, to see the bounty of the Lord in the land of the living. Sometimes that land feels like a desert. Sometimes it feels like we are waiting for a harvest that will never come. But the Gospel says, 'The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few.' We are the laborers. We are the ones who are called to go out into the streets, to share the peace, and to witness to the fact that the Kingdom is at hand. We do this by loving each other. We do this by holding onto the memory of those we have lost, not as a weight that anchors us to the past, but as a light that guides us into the future.

Think of the 'Well of Love' in Vietnam. That well is a perfect image of what you are doing. You are taking the love that was poured into Ben, and you are letting it flow into the lives of others. You are ensuring that his life is not a closed chapter, but a living, breathing, life-sustaining force. Every time you are kind, every time you choose to forgive, every time you choose to hope in the face of despair, you are allowing his legacy to refresh the world. You are turning the soil of the earth so that the Kingdom can grow.

So today, carry this away with you: you are never alone. You are a family that is being held by the same hands that hold the universe. When you see a bird in flight, or a plane climbing into the clouds, don't just see a machine or a creature; see a sign of the freedom that Benjamin now knows. See a sign of the promise that you are walking toward. Keep your eyes on the horizon. The journey is not over; it is simply continuing in a new, more glorious way. And one day, when the long road reaches the end, you will look up and see him waiting for you, and the joy will be beyond all reckoning.

Do not be afraid of the 'why.' Job was afraid, the disciples were afraid, and it is okay for you to be afraid too. But stay with the Lord. Keep your hand on the plow. When the days feel long and the silence feels heavy, remember that you are not being asked to understand the mysteries of the universe. You are being asked to trust the One who holds the stars in place and who holds Benjamin in the palm of His hand. You are being asked to live in such a way that his memory continues to be a blessing to everyone you meet.

Take this with you: you are a family of four, and that will never change. The geography of your life has shifted, but the bond of your love is eternal. Keep the 'Well of Love' flowing in his name. Keep the kindness moving. Keep the dream alive. And when you walk out those doors, look up at the sky. Remember that he is not in the dust. He is in the light. He is waiting for you, and he is watching over you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you remember so vividly. That smile is a sign. It is a sign that the harvest is coming, and that the One who started this good work in you will surely bring it to completion. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him. Amen.