Thursday of the Thirty-first Week in Ordinary Time

We begin today by looking at a very small, very ordinary thing: a key. Think of the way a key feels in your hand—cold, jagged, weighted with the promise of access. We all have keys. We have keys to our homes, our cars, our offices. We spend a good portion of our lives looking for them, don’t we? We pat our pockets, we check the bowl by the door, we retrace our steps because we know that without the key, the door remains a barrier. It is a simple object, but it holds the power to change everything. It is the difference between standing outside in the cold and being safely inside, where the light is on and the people we love are waiting.

I want you to hold onto this image: the key. It is the image of the search—the relentless, hopeful, determined search for what is missing. It is an image of a God who refuses to let a single door remain locked between His heart and yours.

Let us speak the truth of the heart before we look for the comfort. Alan, Thao, Ryan, and all of you who carry the light of Benjamin Vo in your souls: it has been four months since Ben crossed the threshold of this world into the next. We know the reality of your quiet house. We know the moments when the silence becomes a weight, when the habits of a lifetime—the coding, the aviation spotting, the simple joy of a shared meal—are suddenly interrupted by the sharp, cold realization that he is not there in the way he once was. You are grieving. You are carrying a cross that feels far too heavy for human shoulders. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be angry at the unfairness of a world that takes a boy of such brilliant promise. You are allowed to be human.

There is a temptation, when we carry this kind of sorrow, to look back at the path we walked and wonder if we missed a sign. We wonder if we could have seen something earlier, or done something differently, or if we failed in some hidden way. Let us lift that stone from your hearts right now. You missed nothing. You were the parents and the brother that Benjamin was given. You loved him with a completeness that filled his fifteen years with the richness of the world. You walked the globe with him, you shared the meals, you witnessed the brilliance of his mind and the gentleness of his spirit. 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; you are absolved. You were faithful. You were present. You were love in action.

Now, let the Gospel break in. Look at the shepherd. He has ninety-nine sheep, but he is fixated on the one. He does not count his losses and move on. He does not tell himself that the risk is too high or the effort is too great. He leaves the ninety-nine in the desert and goes after the lost one until he finds it. And when he finds it? He does not scold it. He does not drag it. He sets it on his shoulders. Think of that weight. The shepherd is carrying the sheep, bearing the burden of its weakness, feeling the warmth of its life against his own neck. He is bringing it home. Jesus is telling us that God’s love is not a passive thing. It is a search. It is a pursuit. It is the act of a heart that refuses to be whole until every single one of His own is safely gathered in.

Benjamin was a boy who understood the beauty of that kind of pursuit. Think of his brilliant, searching mind—the way he mastered mathematics, the way he dived into the complexities of cloud infrastructure, or how he coded his own games in his GitHub repository. He loved the logic of systems, the way a problem could be solved if you just worked at it long enough. But think of the gentleness of his spirit, which was the true architecture of his life. Think of the way he loved to look at airplanes, dreaming of his ‘con chim airlines.’ He wasn’t just looking at metal and engines; he was looking at the horizon, looking for the next place to explore, the next connection to be made. That is the boy you raised. That is the boy who is now at the banquet of heaven, interceding for you. He is not a memory; he is a living soul, fully alive in the love of God. He has found the destination he was searching for, and he is waiting for the rest of his family to arrive.

Ryan, you are a brother who carries a unique, holy weight. You know the memories better than anyone. You know the games you coded, the dreams you shared, the simple, everyday life of being brothers. You are not just a brother who remains; you are a brother who continues the story. When you look at the sky, when you think of the future, remember that you are not doing it alone. You are carrying the legacy of his joy. You are a witness to the world that love is not a finite resource. It is a well that never runs dry. Keep being the boy who reaches out. Keep being the one who values the small, human moments. You are a vital part of this family of four, and your life is a testament to the fact that love is the most durable thing we possess.

We hear in the letter to the Philippians today: ‘Whatever gains I had, these I have come to consider a loss because of Christ. More than that, I even consider everything as a loss because of the supreme good of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.’ This is the turn of the heart. Paul is not saying that his heritage or his accomplishments were evil; he is saying that in the light of Christ, they are no longer the source of his security. He has found a greater key. He has found the only thing that opens the door to eternal life. When we lose someone as precious as Benjamin, we feel as though we have lost everything. And in a sense, we have lost the version of the world we knew. But in that emptiness, there is a new space created. There is a room in our hearts that is now reserved entirely for the hope of heaven. It is a room that only God can fill.

There is a peace that comes from knowing that we are held. It is not a peace that takes away the pain, but it is a peace that keeps us from being destroyed by it. It is the peace of knowing that Benjamin is waiting. He is waiting in the light, he is waiting in the place where there is no more struggling, no more darkness, only the clear, bright presence of the Father. He is waiting for you with that same sweet, gentle smile that you remember so vividly. That smile is the sign that the work is going well. That smile is the promise that the reunion is certain. He is a light in the world, and he is shining for you. He is the sheep that was found, and he is now resting on the shoulders of the Good Shepherd.

So, what do you carry out the door today? Not a summary, not a heavy burden, but one small, doable thing: when the grief rises and the house feels too quiet, pause. Close your eyes. Imagine the Lord reaching into the silence, and imagine Benjamin smiling at you from the other side. Let yourself be gathered. Trust that you are held. And walk out into the world with the quiet, unshakeable hope that the love you share is the most powerful force in the universe. It is stronger than death. It is more enduring than time. And it is the very thing that will bring you home to each other. You are not a broken family. You are a family of four, and you are being held in the palm of God's hand. Keep your heart open to that truth. Keep your eyes on the light. And remember that he is watching over you, always, with love that knows no end. Amen.