Ulluriaq Uqqujiutiktuq Sanningajumik (Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross)

In the desert, the people were tired. Their feet were sore from the sand, their throats were parched, and their patience—that thin, fragile thread that holds us together when the journey is long—had finally snapped. They looked at the manna, that daily gift of bread from heaven, and they called it 'wretched.' It is a human thing to do, isn't it? When the ache of the journey becomes too much, we stop seeing the gift and start seeing only the hunger. We stop seeing the providence and start seeing only the emptiness. The people complained, and in their bitterness, they lost their way. They were bitten by serpents, and in that moment of sting and shadow, they had to look up. They had to look at the bronze serpent on the pole—not because the metal had power, but because their obedience in looking was an act of turning back to God. They had to lift their eyes from the dust of their own misery to the sign of their salvation.

I want you to think about that image of looking up. Think about how much of our lives we spend looking down. We look down at the floor when we are overwhelmed. We look down at our screens, at our worries, at the things we cannot fix. We look down at the heavy, quiet spaces where we wish a voice would break the silence. But today, the Church holds up the Cross. It is the ultimate 'looking up.' It is the moment when the Son of Man is lifted high, not to show us a tragedy, but to show us the depth of a love that refused to stop at the edge of death.

Benjamin knew something about looking up. You have told me how he loved to watch the airplanes, how he would stand there, head tilted back, eyes tracking the flight path of a Boeing 737 across the blue. There was a wonder in him that wasn't tied to the ground. He was a boy who lived with his eyes on the horizon, always curious, always dreaming of what was next—even when he was just standing on a porch in his flip-flops, gazing out toward the driveway. He had that rare, beautiful capacity to see beyond the ordinary. He didn't just see a jet; he saw a possibility. He didn't just see a math problem; he saw a logic that connected the world. And that is exactly how we are called to look at the Cross today. We are called to look past the wood, past the suffering, and see the 'Con Chim Airlines' of the soul—the way God has cleared the flight path for us to reach the Father’s house.

There is an ache in this room, and I will not pretend it isn't there. The empty chair, the morning light that feels too bright when you are carrying a heavy heart, the nights when the silence seems to have a weight of its own—these are real. They are the 'desert' parts of your journey. But the Gospel today gives us a promise that is meant to travel with you into those quiet, difficult hours. 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.' Think about that 'gave.' It wasn't a transaction. It was an offering. It was the Father saying, 'I love you so much that I will hold nothing back.'

Benjamin understood the heart of an offering. Remember that moment with his piggy bank? He didn't need to break it, he didn't need to empty it, and he didn't need to hand it over. The act of offering was what mattered. It was his way of saying, 'I am with you, Uncle. I am here.' He offered his entire world because he loved. And in that, he was reflecting the very heart of the Father. When you feel the weight of your loss, when you feel like you have nothing left to give, remember that you are part of a love that has already given everything. You are not alone in your offering. You are held by the One who gave His Son for you.

I speak to you now, Alan and Thao, and to you, Ryan. I know the nights are long. I know the memories of the family trips—the Áo Dài with the golden dragons, the laughter on the rocks, the simple joy of a shared meal—sometimes feel like a beautiful, distant country you can no longer visit. But the Cross tells us that the distance is not as great as it seems. Because of the Cross, the horizon is open. Benjamin is not in the past; he is in the presence of the One who is the Alpha and the Omega. He is, as you said, at the Banquet. He is in the light. And the same Jesus who was lifted up on the Cross is the one who is sitting with you at your table today. He is the one who hears every 'Mẹ' whispered in the dark. He is the one who understands the bond between brothers, because He Himself is the Brother of us all.

Do not let your hearts be hardened by the desert. Do not let the silence of the house make you forget the voice that once filled it with giggles and dreams of aviation. That life—that brilliant, gentle, curious life—was a gift that has not been taken away; it has been returned to the Source of all light. Benjamin’s life is a testament to the fact that love is not a finite resource. It is a well. Just like the 'Giếng Gioan Baotixita' that flows in his name, his love continues to nourish, to sustain, and to give life to others. Your love for him is doing the same. Every time you speak his name, every time you remember his smile, every time you choose to keep living with the same courage and curiosity he had, you are letting that well flow.

So, what do you carry out the door? Today, when you feel that sting of the serpent—that sudden, sharp reminder of the loss—do not look down. Do not look at the bite. Look up. Look at the Cross. Remember that the journey is not about the desert; it is about the destination. Look up and see the sky, just like Ben used to do. See the airplanes, the birds, the vastness of the blue, and know that your son is soaring. He is free. He is home. And he is waiting for you to join him at the gates of the Father’s house.

Live for him, Ryan. Study, play, dream, and look at the world with that same brilliant, questioning mind. You are his brother, and that is a bond that even death cannot touch. Alan and Thao, keep your hearts open. You have loved well, you have loved perfectly, and that love is the bridge that will keep you connected to him until the day the, as the Gospel says, 'everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.'

Today, take a small, simple step. When you see a plane in the sky, or when you sit down to rest, simply whisper, 'Thank you, God, for the gift of Benjamin.' And then, breathe. Breathe in the peace of the One who was lifted up for you. You are held. You are loved. And you are never, ever walking this road alone.