Tallimanngungitut 25-nik Ukiuqalirtilluni Ubluqsiutini

We often look at the world and feel that things are simply repeating. The sun rises, the sun sets, the wind blows in circles, and we find ourselves walking the same paths, day after day. In our first reading today, Qoheleth looks at this cycle—the rising sun, the rivers returning to the sea—and he calls it 'vanity.' He sees the labor of human hands and wonders what profit it truly brings. It is a feeling many of you know well. You wake up, you go through the motions of your day, and you wonder: what is the point of all this movement if the heart feels so heavy?

I want you to think about the rhythm of a day. Think of the quiet morning light, the way the shadows stretch across the floor, or the way the sound of a house changes from dawn to dusk. There is a stillness in that cycle. For Benjamin, that rhythm was something he observed with such wonder. He was a boy who looked at the world not just as a place to exist, but as a place to understand. He loved the mechanics of a Boeing 737, the way it lifted off the runway, the way it cut through the air. He saw the beauty in the design. He saw the order in the chaos. And yet, even in his brilliance, in his ability to code complex games or navigate the logic of the world, he was a boy who knew that his life was about more than just 'making noise' or 'beating hands.' He was a boy who knew how to listen.

There is a deep, aching truth in the silence of an empty chair. I know that for Alan and Thao, and for you, Ryan, that silence is not just a lack of sound. It is a presence. It is the memory of a brother who would greet his father every single morning without fail. It is the memory of a boy who, in his quiet generosity, once offered his entire piggy bank to help an uncle in need. He didn't need to break it, he didn't need to empty it; he simply offered it. That is the heart of a saint. That is the heart of a boy who understood that love is not about what we keep, but about what we are willing to give.

In our Gospel, we find Herod. He is perplexed. He hears reports of Jesus and he wonders, 'Who is this?' He kept trying to see Him. Herod is a man who is constantly looking for answers in the wrong places. He is a man who is trapped in the cycle of his own power and his own fears. He wants to see Jesus, but he wants to see Him on his own terms. And that is where so many of us get stuck. We look at our lives, we look at the loss of someone as radiant as Benjamin, and we ask, 'Who is this God who allows such things?' We want answers. We want the logic of the world to explain the mystery of heaven.

But the Gospel does not give us an explanation. It gives us a Person. It gives us Jesus. When we feel that sudden, sharp ambush of grief, when the morning light feels too bright or the evening too long, we are standing exactly where Herod stood—in the presence of a mystery we cannot solve. But unlike Herod, we are not called to be perplexed. We are called to be faithful. We are called to trust that the One who holds the stars in their places also holds our tears in a bottle.

Ryan, you are carrying your brother’s legacy in your own heart. When you go about your studies, when you play, when you dream of the future, remember that you are not just living for yourself. You are living as the brother of a boy who loved the world. You are the one who continues to tell his story. You are the one who keeps his curiosity alive. Don't be afraid of the sadness. It is just the other side of the love you have for him. It is the proof that he was here, that he was loved, and that he is still with you in the communion of saints.

There is a temptation, when we are hurting, to think that we have somehow failed. We look back and we wonder if we could have done more, if we could have protected him better, if we could have seen something we missed. Let me say this clearly: you missed nothing. You loved him with everything you had. You gave him a life of beauty, of travel, of laughter, and of deep, unwavering affection. That is not a failure. That is a masterpiece. God is not a judge who is waiting to point out your mistakes. He is a Father who is waiting to embrace you. He does not hold you responsible for the mysteries of life that are beyond our control. You are absolved. You are free to grieve, and in that grief, you are free to love.

Benjamin’s life was a gift. It was a brief, brilliant flash of light. He was a boy who looked at the sky with wonder, who dreamed of 'con chim airlines', who found joy in the simple act of being with his family. That joy does not die. It is transformed. It is gathered up into the heart of God. When you look at the sky today, when you see a plane climbing into the clouds, remember that Ben is not gone. He is simply in the place where the sun never sets, where the wind does not just blow in circles, but rests in the peace of the Creator.

Carry this with you today: you are never alone. When the house feels quiet, when the routine feels empty, take a breath and remember that you are part of a story that is much bigger than this world. You are loved by the God who knows your name, who knows your pain, and who is walking with you through every step of this journey.

Do this one small thing today: when you feel that ache, don't try to push it away. Instead, whisper his name. Say, 'Benjamin, pray for us.' And then, do something kind for someone else. Maybe it’s just a smile, maybe it’s a word of encouragement, maybe it’s a small act of service. Let his love continue to flow through you, just like the water from the well in Cà Mau flows to those who are thirsty. That is how we keep him close. That is how we turn our grief into a garden.

Rest in the knowledge that he is safe. He is whole. He is with the Lord. And one day, we will all be gathered together again, and the silence will be filled with the sound of his laughter. Until then, keep looking up. Keep loving. Keep living. Because that is what he would want for you. And that is what God is asking of you today.