Aullaniq ublua 29-nganni nalliutiqattatuni

Imagine a doorway. We all know the feeling of standing before one—perhaps it is the front door of a house where you once felt completely at home, or an airport gate where you waited for a flight that would take you somewhere beautiful. There is a specific kind of anticipation in those moments. You are waiting for something to happen, for someone to appear, for the threshold to be crossed. In our reading from Ephesians, Saint Paul speaks of a much greater doorway. He tells us that in Christ, the dividing walls—the things that keep us apart, the things that make us feel like strangers or sojourners—have been broken down. He says, 'For he is our peace, he made both one.'

Think of the way Benjamin loved to watch the skies. He didn’t just look at airplanes; he studied them. He understood the complex systems that hold a massive Boeing 737 in the air, the invisible currents and the precise engineering that allow a machine to traverse the globe. He had this brilliant, sharp mind that sought to understand how things are held together. And yet, the most beautiful thing about Benjamin wasn’t his intellect, as vast as it was. It was his capacity to be at home in the world and to make others feel at home with him. He was a boy who could navigate the complexities of technology and the complexities of human relationships with the same gentle, steady heart.

There is a deep, aching truth we must name today: the world can feel very empty when someone we love is no longer walking through the door. For Alan and Thao, for Ryan, the house might feel quiet in a way that is hard to bear. You might find yourself listening for a footstep, or looking at the spot where he used to stand, or remembering the way he would giggle when he talked about his 'con chim airlines.' That ache is real. It is not a sign that you have failed or that you have lost your way. It is a sign of how deeply you loved him. When we lose someone who was the light of our lives, the world feels like it has lost its center of gravity. You might wonder if you are doing enough, or if you are carrying the weight correctly. But hear this: you are not alone in the silence. The God who built the universe, the God who holds the stars in their places, is the same God who holds Benjamin in His arms.

In the Gospel, Jesus tells us to 'gird your loins and light your lamps.' He is telling us to be ready, to be vigilant. This isn't a command to be anxious or to worry about the future. It is an invitation to keep our hearts open and our spirits ready for the unexpected ways God shows up in our lives. Often, we think of 'being ready' as something we do for the end of our lives, but it is actually about how we live today. It is about keeping the lamp of love lit, even when the night feels long. It is about recognizing that even in our grief, God is at the door, knocking gently, waiting to be invited into the room of our sorrow.

Do you remember how Benjamin was always ready to offer what he had? That moment when he offered his entire piggy bank for his uncle—he didn't have to do that. He wasn't asked. He simply saw a need and his heart moved toward it. That is the heart of a disciple. That is the heart of someone who is already living in the Kingdom. He didn't need to empty the bank; the offer itself was the treasure. And that is what God asks of us today. He doesn't ask us to fix our grief or to pretend we aren't hurting. He asks us to offer our hearts, just as they are—broken, tired, hopeful, or confused—and to let Him walk through the door of our lives.

Ryan, your brother loved you more than words can capture. You were his partner in every sense. When you look at the sky and see a plane, or when you sit in the quiet, know that you are not just remembering a past; you are connected to a living reality. Benjamin is not far off. He is in the 'household of God,' just as Paul describes, a fellow citizen with the holy ones. He is not a stranger to you; he is a part of the foundation upon which your own life is being built. Your life, your future, your dreams—they are all part of the same structure that God is building, a temple sacred in the Lord.

If you are feeling the weight of the day, if the morning light brings a fresh wave of missing him, turn your eyes to the 'capstone.' Jesus is the one who holds it all together. He is the one who reconciles, who heals, who makes the two into one. When you feel that you cannot go on, remember that you are being built together into a dwelling place of God. You are not just a collection of memories; you are a living, breathing part of God’s plan. And Benjamin is there, cheering you on, his smile still radiating the joy he always carried.

What can you carry out the door today? Just this: the promise that you are never truly alone. When you feel the silence, speak a name. When you feel the ache, offer it as a prayer. When you see something beautiful—a plane in the sky, a bird in flight, a moment of kindness—remember that this is a glimpse of the world Benjamin is now experiencing in its fullness. You are a family held by God. You are seen, you are known, and you are loved beyond measure. Keep your lamps lit by small acts of kindness, by continuing to love one another, and by trusting that the Master of the house is not only returning—He is already here, waiting to sit at the table with you and to give you rest. May you feel the peace that passes all understanding, and may the memory of Benjamin’s gentle spirit be the light that guides you home, one step at a time.