Memorial of Our Lady of the Rosary

There is a specific kind of silence that fills a house when the people who inhabit it are learning to pray. It is not a heavy silence, nor is it an empty one. It is the silence of a room where someone has finally stopped talking to the world and started listening to the Author of it. We see this in the Gospel today. Jesus has been praying, and when he finishes, his disciples—men who had seen him walk on water and heal the sick—do not ask him for more power or more miracles. They ask him, 'Lord, teach us to pray.' They realize that the source of his strength, the reason he can stand in the face of any storm, is not found in his own human effort, but in his constant, unbroken conversation with the Father. They want that same connection. They want to know the secret of his peace.

Think of the way Saint Paul describes his own journey in the letter to the Galatians. He speaks of going up to Jerusalem, of presenting the Gospel he preached, and of the necessity of being 'mindful of the poor.' He talks about the friction of life—the moments when even the greatest of the Apostles, like Peter, had to be corrected because they were acting out of fear rather than truth. Paul’s life was a constant process of stripping away the things that didn't matter to reveal the one thing that did: the grace of Christ. He had to learn, as we all must, that true faithfulness is not about performing for the crowd or checking boxes to be seen as 'correct.' It is about living in the truth of the Gospel, even when it is difficult, even when it is lonely, even when it requires us to stand alone against the current of our own fears.

This is the heart of the Christian life, and it is the heart of the life that Benjamin Vo lived. You know, Benjamin was a boy who understood that life is a series of connections. He was a master of the digital world, of code and infrastructure, of building systems that allowed information to flow from one place to another. He spent hours in his GitHub repositories, crafting games and applications, always looking for the most logical, the most efficient, the most elegant way to solve a problem. But there was a deeper logic in Ben’s life—a logic of love. He was a boy who looked at the horizon not just as a place to go, but as a place to be understood. He was a boy who dreamt of 'con chim airlines' and would giggle with such pure, infectious delight when he talked about it, not because he was obsessed with the mechanics of flight, but because he was captivated by the sheer, beautiful possibility of going higher.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these past three months, you have been navigating a landscape that feels entirely new. You remember the way Ben would look at you with that bright, curious gaze, always ready to share a discovery or a joke. You remember the way he lived with such integrity—the kind of boy who, when he saw his Uncle William suffering, didn't hesitate to offer his own savings, his own 'piggy bank,' as a way to help. He didn't need to break it, he didn't need to count it, he didn't need to make a spectacle of it. The offer was the point. The offer was the prayer. It was the movement of a heart that understood that we are here to support one another, to carry one another’s burdens, and to give of ourselves until there is nothing left to give but love.

That is the 'Good News' the Psalm speaks of today. It is not a message we just hear; it is a message we embody. When you go out to the world, as the Psalm commands, you are not just telling people about Jesus. You are showing them the kind of love that Ben showed you. You are showing them that even when the road is steep, even when the silence is loud, there is a kindness that endures. You are the ones who are keeping his light burning. And you are doing it not by trying to fix the world, but by allowing the grace of God to flow through you, just as that water flows from the well in Cà Mau, bringing life to a place that was once dry.

There is a temptation to think that we have to be 'strong' in the way the world defines strength—that we have to be stoic, that we have to have the answers, that we have to move forward without looking back. But the Gospel today teaches us that we are to be like children. 'Father, hallowed be your name,' Jesus says. He doesn't say, 'Father, explain your plan to me.' He doesn't say, 'Father, justify this to me.' He says, 'Your kingdom come.' He invites us to trust that the Kingdom is already here, even if we cannot see it with our eyes. It is here in the love you share. It is here in the way you hold onto each other. It is here in the memory of a boy who loved the world and who is now, in the most profound way possible, part of the Kingdom that is coming.

Ryan, you are the one who carries that legacy in such a unique way. You are the brother who knows the rhythm of Ben’s heart. You know the secrets of the games you coded, the joy you found in the simple things, the way you both stood side-by-side in your pilot shirts, looking out at the world with such hope. When you walk into a room, you are not just walking as yourself; you are walking with the strength of a brother who has already reached 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 wondering if they missed something or could have done more. 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. You are loved without limit, and you are being held by the same hands that hold him.

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. You are the ones who are keeping his light burning in a world that so often forgets to look up.

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 tells us that we are watched over. We are guarded. We are guided. We are never out of the sight of the Father. 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.

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.

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.