Ubluq Nalliutivik Saint Peter Claver, Palasi

Imagine a bird, perhaps one of those colorful macaws Ben loved to see, perched on a branch, its wings folded, its gaze fixed on the horizon. It is waiting. It is not anxious, not pacing, not trying to force the wind to blow. It simply rests in the reality of the air, trusting that when the moment comes, it will fly. There is a profound stillness in that image—a stillness that Saint Paul speaks of today in his letter to the Corinthians. He tells us, 'The world in its present form is passing away.' It is not a threat; it is a description of the truth. Everything we touch, everything we build, everything we hold—it is all moving toward a greater reality.

Benjamin understood this, perhaps in ways we are only beginning to grasp. Think of the way he looked at the world, not as a place to hoard, but as a place to explore. Whether he was spotting airplanes or coding a new game, he was always looking ahead, always curious about what was next, always reaching toward a horizon that was wider than his own room. He had that rare, beautiful capacity to live in the present while his soul was clearly tuned to something larger. He didn't cling to his things. Remember, he was the boy who offered his entire savings to help his uncle. He didn't need to break the piggy bank; he simply held the offer in his heart, ready to give it all away because he knew, in his gentle wisdom, that people matter more than possessions. That is the spirit of the Gospel today.

'Blessed are you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours.' When Jesus speaks these words, He is not praising poverty as a misery; He is praising the freedom of the heart that does not depend on the world to define its worth. He is speaking to the person who knows that their true home is not in the things they own, but in the love they receive and give. Ben lived this. He was brilliant, yes—he had a mind that could map out complex systems and dream of airlines—but his brilliance never made him cold. It made him more capable of empathy, more capable of seeing the needs of those around him. He was a boy who knew that the most sophisticated technology in the world is not as powerful as a simple, kind smile.

I know that for you, Alan and Thao, and for you, Ryan, the world feels very different now. The silence in your home is a heavy, tangible thing. You look at the places where Ben used to sit, the things he used to touch, and the gap feels impossible to bridge. Do not try to rush past that. Do not try to pretend that the world hasn't shifted on its axis. The Lord Jesus, who wept at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, knows exactly what it is to miss someone. He knows the ache of a seat left empty at the table. He is not standing at a distance; He is sitting right there in the silence with you. He is the one who holds the memories that you are afraid to touch. He is the one who keeps Ben’s laughter safe in the eternal present of His own heart.

Some of you may be wondering if you did enough, if you saw enough, if you could have somehow held onto him tighter. Let me tell you this clearly: you were the perfect family for him. You loved him with a devotion that is a reflection of God’s own love. You didn't miss anything. You gave him your lives, your stories, your time, your adventures. You built a home of love, and that love is not a thing that can be taken away. It is written into the very fabric of his soul. You are not to blame for anything. You are simply the ones who were given the great, heavy, beautiful privilege of loving a saint-in-the-making. Let that be enough. Give yourselves permission to breathe, to grieve, and to trust that Ben is exactly where he needs to be.

Ryan, you carry so much of your brother with you. You are the one who knows the stories, the one who knows the jokes, the one who knows the rhythm of his heart. When you feel that you are walking alone, remember that you are not. You are walking with the love of your brother as your companion. Live your life with the same curiosity he had. Keep building, keep dreaming, keep looking at the sky. Every time you see a plane, every time you find a new way to solve a problem, Ben is there, cheering you on. You are his brother, and that bond is stronger than death. It is a bond that is held together by the very power of the Resurrection.

'Blessed are you who are now weeping, for you will laugh.' This is the promise of the Gospel. It is not a promise that the pain will vanish today, but a promise that the laughter will return, deeper and more joyful than before, because it will be laughter that has passed through the fire and come out on the other side. Ben is already laughing. He is in that place where the logic of the universe finally makes sense, where the airplanes of his dreams are soaring in the light of the Father. He is waiting for you. He is watching over you. He is part of the cloud of witnesses that surrounds you every single day.

So, what can you carry out the door today? Just this: be gentle with yourselves. If you feel the tears, let them come. If you feel the joy, let it come. You do not have to be strong all the time. You only have to be faithful. Today, when you see something beautiful—a bird, a light, a moment of kindness—say a small prayer to Ben. Thank him for the way he showed you how to love. And know that you are held by the same God who is holding him. You are a family of four, and that will never change. The distance is only a thin veil, and one day, the veil will be lifted, and you will see him again, smiling, strong, and waiting for you at the door. Until then, keep your hearts open. Keep listening for the voice. He is there. He is with you. You are held.