Ulluq Nalliutiqartitaulluni Saint Leo Ajuqirtuiji

Imagine a long, dusty road at the end of a day. The sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the fields. You have been working—plowing the earth, tending the sheep, carrying the weight of the day’s labor. You come home, tired, your muscles aching, your mind heavy. You expect a moment of rest, perhaps a word of thanks. But instead, you are met with a simple, direct instruction: 'Prepare something for me to eat. Put on your apron and wait on me.' It sounds harsh to our modern ears, doesn't it? It sounds like a lack of appreciation, a dismissal of the effort you have just poured out. But Jesus is not talking about the callousness of a master; He is talking about the posture of a disciple. He is talking about the way we hold our lives before God.

Today, on this memorial of Saint Leo the Great, we are reminded that our lives are not our own. They are a gift, a stewardship, a trust. When we have done all we have been commanded, we are to say, 'We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.' This is not a message of shame. It is a message of profound, liberating humility. It is the realization that we do not 'earn' God’s love by our performance, nor do we 'pay' for the life we have been given. We live, we love, and we serve because that is what it means to be alive in the light of the Father.

I think of Benjamin. I think of the way he moved through this world—not as a servant seeking a wage, but as a boy who understood, in the quiet, intuitive logic of his heart, that love is the only currency that matters. You remember how he was: a boy of brilliant, sharp intellect, a mind that could navigate the complexities of cloud infrastructure and the mechanics of a Boeing 737 with the ease of a master. But he never used that brilliance to set himself apart or to demand a place at the table. He used it to connect. He used it to share a laugh with his dad about 'con chim airlines.' He used it to look at the world with curiosity and wonder. He was a boy who, in the simple, honest code of his life, knew that the greatest thing he could do was to be present, to be kind, and to be a son.

There is a memory that stays with me, a small, quiet moment that reveals the depth of his spirit. You remember the offer he made, unprompted, to give his entire piggy bank to his uncle William. He didn't break it. He didn't empty it. He didn't need to. The offer itself was the truth of his soul. It was the declaration of a boy who knew that everything he had—every coin, every dream, every hour of his life—was meant to be poured out for those he loved. That is the 'unprofitable servant' Jesus speaks of. It is someone who knows that the joy is not in the accumulation, but in the giving. It is the joy of a boy who, even at fifteen, understood that the 'Banquet of Heaven' is not a place you earn, but a place you are welcomed into because you have lived with an open hand.

I know that for you, Alan and Thao, these four months have felt like a long, unending season of labor. I know the ache of the empty chair, the way the silence in the house can feel like a weight that never lifts. I know the way the mind, in the quiet of the night, starts to replay the past, searching for a different outcome, wondering if there was something you missed, some sign you failed to see. Let me lift that stone from your heart today. You missed nothing. There was no failure of love in your home. You loved Benjamin with a completeness that is rare and precious. God does not hold you to account for the mystery of a life that ended too soon. He holds you in the same tenderness that He holds Ben. The guilt that whispers in the dark is a lie. It is a burden you were never meant to carry. Lay it down. You were the best parents he could have had, and he knew it. He knew it in your laughter, in your trips to the ends of the earth, in the way you supported his dreams, and in the way you held him close.

Ryan, my dear brother, you carry your brother’s legacy in the way you walk, in the way you remember, and in the way you continue to be a light for your mom and dad. You are not alone. The bond you shared is not broken; it is simply held in a different, eternal space. When you look up at the sky and see a plane, know that it is a sign—a quiet, persistent whisper that your brother is still with you, still cheering for you, still part of the 'perfect four.'

There is a temptation, when we are grieving, to think that we must 'do' something to prove our love, or that we must be strong enough to carry the weight alone. But Jesus tells us to say, 'We have done what we were obliged to do.' In the context of your grief, this means: let go of the need to be perfect. Let go of the need to 'fix' this sorrow. You are not the master of this life; God is. And He is a master who is kind, who is merciful, and who is holding you through every single step of this journey. You do not have to perform your grief correctly. You do not have to be strong all the time. You only have to be present, to be honest, and to let Him carry you when your own legs are tired.

Think of the well in Cà Mau. Think of the water that flows in Ben’s name, bringing life to those who were thirsty. That is the truth of his life. It was not a life cut short; it was a life that, like a stream, continues to flow, touching the lives of others, bringing refreshment, and proving that love does not stop at the edge of the grave. His curiosity, his kindness, his gentle smile—these are the fruits of a life well-lived. They are the 'good deeds' that Saint Paul speaks of in his letter to Titus, the way we 'live temperately, justly, and devoutly in this age.'

We are all, in a sense, waiting for the 'blessed hope.' We are all working in the field, waiting for the moment when the Master will say, 'Come, sit at the table.' That is the promise that sustains us. That is the hope that makes the labor worth it. Until that day, we continue to live, we continue to love, and we continue to look for Ben in the light of the sun, in the laughter of our family, and in the quiet, steady presence of the God who loves us more than we can ever imagine.

So, what do you carry out the door today? Don't carry the weight of the past four months as a debt you must pay. Carry the freedom of knowing you are loved. When you feel the ache, breathe it out, and breathe in the grace that is sufficient for you. Remember that you are not 'unprofitable' in the eyes of God; you are His children. You are held. You are seen. And you are walking, every day, toward a reunion that will never end. Hold on to that. It is the only thing that is truly real. Amen.