Thursday of the Thirtieth Week in Ordinary Time

We begin today not with a grand theological argument, but with the quiet sound of armor being strapped into place in the dark. St. Paul tells the Ephesians to put on the belt of truth, to buckle the breastplate of righteousness, to lace their feet with the readiness of the Gospel of peace. It is an image of preparation, of standing your ground when the wind begins to blow cold and the day feels heavy. Think of the simple, physical reality of getting ready for the morning. A boy standing in the hallway, checking his shoes, adjusting his jacket, stepping out the door into the morning light with a backpack full of questions and a mind that is already racing toward the horizon. He is getting ready for whatever the day holds.

I want you to hold onto that single image: the belt of truth, the gear worn for a journey. It is the image of a traveler getting ready to move.

Now, let us tell the truth before we try to comfort ourselves. Alan, Thao, Ryan, and everyone gathered here in this sacred space or tuning in from afar, carrying the quiet, crushing weight of a missing presence: we know what it is like to stand in a hallway that is too quiet. We know what it is like to wake up and feel the day pressing down on you before you have even opened your eyes. Four months have passed since Benjamin Vo went home to God, and the silence in your home does not ask for polite answers. It asks for honesty. You look at the places where he used to be—the quiet corners, the spaces filled with his bright curiosity, the brilliant logic of a boy who loved the mechanics of flight and the vastness of the skies—and the ache is real. It is an ache that does not leave room for cheap clichés. It is heavy. It is wearying. It makes you wonder how to stand firm when the ground beneath your feet feels shaken.

There is a temptation, when life breaks our hearts, to look backward through a lens of quiet self-blame. We search the past for missed signs. We wonder if we could have done something differently, if we could have stood watch more carefully, if some hidden detail slipped through our fingers. Let us lift that stone from your hearts right now. You missed nothing. You were the parents, the family, the brother Benjamin was given. You loved him with a completeness that filled his fifteen years with joy, with travel across the world, with the sweet warmth of shared stories and laughter. God does not accuse you, and you must not accuse yourselves. Some sorrows in this fragile world arrive entirely beyond human reach, untouched by anything anyone did or failed to do. You are not to blame. Let that heavy stone fall to the ground, and let your shoulders rest.

And then, right into the middle of that ache, the Gospel breaks in like light coming under a closed door. Jesus stands looking over Jerusalem, a city that breaks his heart, and he says something astonishing. He does not threaten or condemn. He says: 'How many times I yearned to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were unwilling!' Think of that image. The wings. The warmth. The fierce, gentle protection of a mother bird pulling her little ones close against the storm. Jesus is not a distant judge sitting in the clouds; he is the One who opens his wings and pulls you under them. He covers you when the wind is bitter. He holds you when the night is long.

Benjamin knew about wings and flight. He was a boy who looked at the sky with wonder, who dreamed of airlines and soaring high above the earth, who giggled with pure joy when he talked about 'con chim airlines.' He had that brilliant, sharp mind—the mind that mastered complex systems and mathematics years ahead of his time—yet his heart was always gentle, always turned toward others. Think of the time he offered his entire piggy bank, unprompted, simply because an uncle was hurting. He didn't need to break it open; the offer itself revealed the magnificent, generous soul God had placed inside him. That is the boy you raised. That is the boy who walked beside you on your journeys, from the busy streets of distant cities to the quiet moments at home.

And now, Benjamin is soaring. He is at the banquet of heaven, resting in the light of the Father, standing alongside kindred spirits like the young Saint Carlo Acutis. He is home. And from that place of eternal peace, he is watching over you. Just as he once shared his smile and his sweetness with everyone around him, his memory is now a wellspring of grace. Think of the clean water flowing in Cà Mau, Vietnam, from the well dedicated in his name—the 'Great Ocean' of his middle name poured out to quench the thirst of the poor. His love did not stop when his breathing stopped. It keeps moving. It keeps giving. It keeps blessing the earth.

Alan, Thao, Ryan, you are still a family of four. Death cannot sever what God has joined in love. When you feel the quiet of the house, remember that you are wrapped in the very wings of Christ. He is holding Benjamin, and he is holding you. He is whispering to your hearts that love is stronger than the grave, and that the story is not finished.

So what do you carry out the door today? Not a heavy burden, but one small, doable thing: when the grief rises and the hallway feels empty, pause, close your eyes, and imagine the shadow of those wings. Let yourself be gathered. Trust that you are held. And walk out into the day with the quiet, unshakeable hope that the one you love is waiting for you in the light, smiling, and completely at peace.