Monday of the Thirtieth Week in Ordinary Time

There is a particular, quiet dignity in the way a person stands when they are finally, truly free. In today’s Gospel, we see a woman who has spent eighteen years bent over. She has lived her life looking at the dust, at the ground, at the hem of her own garments. Her world had become small. It was defined by the curve of her spine and the weight of her infirmity. When Jesus calls her forward, he does not just offer a word of comfort; he offers a restoration of her stature. He says, 'Woman, you are set free.' And the Scriptures tell us that at once, she stood up straight. She looked at the horizon. She looked at the face of God. She was no longer defined by what held her down, but by the One who lifted her up.

Imagine the sensation of that moment. After nearly two decades of being tethered to the earth, she could suddenly see the sky. She could see the faces of those around her. She could breathe in the air of the Sabbath, the air of God’s own rest. She was made to stand tall, and in the presence of Jesus, that original design was restored. It is a beautiful image, this image of standing straight. It is the image of a child of God who has finally been unburdened, who has been returned to the dignity of their creation.

Benjamin Vo knew something about this kind of upward gaze. He was a boy who was always looking toward the horizon, toward the vast, open possibilities of the sky. Think of him standing there, perhaps in a quiet moment of his own, with his arms held out wide like wings. He wasn't looking at the ground. He was looking at the planes, at the clouds, at the immense, beautiful complexity of the world he was so eager to explore. He had that brilliant, analytical mind—the mind that could navigate the intricacies of code and the logic of the digital world—but it was always, always tethered to a heart that was reaching for something higher. He was a boy who looked at the world and saw a place where he could build, where he could connect, where he could dream. He was a boy who stood tall in his curiosity and his kindness.

Alan and Thao, I know that for these four months, the world has felt, at times, like it has lost its vertical dimension. You look at the space where Benjamin used to be, and you feel a profound, heavy ache. You wonder how to stand straight when your heart feels bowed by the weight of missing him. You wonder how to look up when your eyes are so often drawn to the memories that dwell in the silence of your home. I want to tell you something that is true: you are not alone in that posture. You are being held by the very same Jesus who reached out to that woman in the synagogue. He is not indifferent to the weight you carry. He is the one who sees the curve of your grief, and he is the one who is gently, persistently calling you to stand up. He is not asking you to forget. He is asking you to believe that even now, even in the midst of this, you are still children of light.

St. Paul tells us in our first reading today: 'For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.' This is not a command to be perfect or to be 'over' our sorrow. It is a command to remember who we belong to. We belong to the One who is the light of the world. Even when the night feels long, even when the shadows seem to stretch across the floor of our lives, the light is still there. It is hidden in the love you share. It is hidden in the way you remember Benjamin’s smile, the way you honor his curiosity, the way you keep his memory alive in the quiet, everyday acts of kindness that you perform in his name. Every time you choose to love, every time you choose to hope, every time you reach out to help someone else, you are living as a child of light. You are standing up straight, even when the wind is blowing.

Ryan, you are a brother who knows the geometry of this love better than anyone. You know the way the house feels, the way the memories are woven into the very fabric of your life together. You are the one who carries the legacy of his joy. When you look at the sky, when you think of the planes, when you remember the games you coded together, you are participating in the light that Paul describes. You are a vital part of this family, and your life is a testament to the fact that love is the most durable thing we possess. Keep being the boy who reaches out. Keep being the one who sees the beauty in the small things. You are a witness to the world that love is stronger than any distance, that it is the most beautiful material in the universe.

There is a temptation, when we are hurting, to think that we have to be 'strong' in the way the world defines strength—that we have to be stoic, or silent, or that we have to 'get over' our grief. But Jesus does not ask for that kind of strength. He asks for the strength of the heart. He asks us to be like the woman in the synagogue who, the moment she was set free, began to glorify God. She didn't hold back. She didn't try to be polite about her miracle. She let her joy, her relief, and her gratitude pour out. Your tears are a form of prayer. Your longing is a form of praise. They are the honest, human response to a love that was so great, it left a void that only God can fill. Do not be afraid to bring that void to him. He is the one who fills it. He is the one who is sitting with you in the quiet, and he is the one who is holding you steady.

Think of the image of the 'well' that we carry in our hearts. A well is a place where we go to draw life. The 'Well of Love' that has been dedicated in Ben’s name in Vietnam is a perfect reflection of his soul. It is a source of life for others. It is a place where the thirst of the poor is quenched. It is a sign that the love that was poured into Benjamin is still flowing, still quenching the thirst of the world, still bringing life to the dry places. Every time you are kind, every time you choose to hope, you are adding to that well. You are keeping the water moving. You are ensuring that the legacy of his gentle spirit continues to nourish the earth. You are the stewards of his legacy, and that is a beautiful, holy work.

Do not worry about the 'why.' Do not worry about the 'how.' Just focus on the 'who.' Focus on the Lord who sees you. Focus on the brother who is waiting for you. Focus on the family that is still a family of four. And remember that the light of God’s love is the only covering you will ever need. It is warm, it is durable, and it is yours forever. Keep walking. Keep trusting. Keep loving. And know that you are held, you are seen, and you are loved beyond all measure.

What do you carry out the door today? It is not a new set of plans. It is a simple, quiet, doable thing: keep your heart open to the light. When you feel the ache, do not turn away from it. Let it be the place where God meets you. When you see someone who is struggling, when you see someone who is thirsty, when you see someone who is just trying to make it through the day, remember that they, too, bear the image of the Creator. Reach out to them. Give a little of your time, a little of your heart, a little of your kindness. Not because you have to, but because you are overflowing with the love that Benjamin left behind. You are the stewards of his legacy. You are the ones who keep the water moving.

Do not be afraid of the future. The same God who held Benjamin in his hand as he looked out at the sky is the same God who holds you today as you look out at your own horizon. He is not a stranger. He is your Father. He knows the exact shape of your heart, he knows the depth of your longing, and he knows how much you miss the one you love. And he is promising you that the story is not over. The reunion is certain. Keep your eyes on the sky. Keep your heart in the light. And remember that 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 banquet 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.