Ulluqusiutik Saint Martin of Tours, Bishop

We often think of the great saints—like Saint Martin of Tours, whose feast we keep today—as figures carved in marble, distant and imposing. We imagine them as men who never knew the hesitation of the human heart, who never felt the sting of a cold wind or the weight of an uncertain day. But the truth is, the holiness of a saint is not found in the absence of struggle, but in the radical, relentless act of giving. You remember the image of Saint Martin: a soldier, shivering in the cold, who looks at a beggar and realizes that to keep his cloak for himself is to leave Christ out in the frost. He doesn't deliberate. He doesn't calculate the cost of the wool or the chill he will feel once the garment is gone. He simply acts. He cuts his cloak in two. He gives what he has because he sees, in the face of the poor, the face of the One who first gave everything to him.

This is the same logic of love that lived in the heart of Benjamin. You know, we often speak of Ben’s brilliance—that sharp, analytical mind that could map out cloud infrastructure or dream up the logistics of 'Con Chim Airlines' with the precision of an engineer. But that brilliance was never a closed system. It was always an open door. Think of the moment you learned of his desire to give his entire piggy bank to his uncle William. He didn't smash the bank. He didn't break it open. He didn't even hand it over, for it wasn't needed. But the offer—the raw, unvarnished, immediate impulse to say, 'Take it all, I don't need it if he is hurting'—that is the very heartbeat of the Gospel. It is the heart of a boy who understood, long before he had the words for it, that we are not the owners of our lives; we are stewards of a mercy we have received.

In our first reading today, Saint Paul reminds us: 'But when the kindness and generous love of God our savior appeared, not because of any righteous deeds we had done but because of his mercy, he saved us.' Paul is telling us that our lives are not a ledger of successes. They are a story of being found. When we are in the thick of grief—and I know, Alan and Thao, that for you, these past four months have been a thick, dark forest—we often look back at the map of our lives and try to find the 'right' path we should have taken. We wonder if we missed a turn, if we ignored a sign, if we could have protected him better. We look at the 'lepers' of our own circumstances and wonder why we were the ones to walk this road.

Let me say this to you, and let it sink into the quietest part of your soul: you are not the authors of this sorrow. You are not responsible for the mystery of a life that was called home. God does not demand that you explain the unexplainable. He does not ask you to justify why a brilliant, gentle boy like Benjamin was given to you for fifteen years and then taken back to the Father. He only asks that you trust Him with the ache. That voice that whispers in the night, suggesting you could have done more, that you were not enough—that is a thief. It is a lie. You were the best parents he could have had. You were his comfort, his partners in travel, the ones who listened to his dreams of airplanes and shared his laughter. You missed nothing. You loved him with a completeness that is the very reflection of God’s own love. You are absolved of that guilt. Lay it down. It is not yours to carry.

Look at the Gospel today. Ten lepers call out to Jesus. They stand at a distance, for their pain has defined them, separated them, made them feel 'other.' Jesus tells them to go show themselves to the priests. They go, and on the way, they are healed. But only one—a Samaritan, an outsider—returns. He falls at the feet of Jesus. He is the one who realizes that the healing is not the end of the story; the relationship is. He comes back not to get more, but to give thanks. He comes back to be near the One who made him whole.

Benjamin was like that. He was a boy who knew how to give thanks. He knew how to find joy in the simple, silly, beautiful things of this world—a boba tea with his brother, a flight path on a screen, a story told by his dad. He lived with his hands open. And that is why he is at peace now. He is at the 'Banquet of Heaven,' and he is still that same, vibrant, curious boy. When Ryan dreams of the roller coaster, when Mom hears a voice in the middle of the night, when Dad feels the presence of his son in a dream—these are not tricks of the mind. They are the ways the Lord, our Shepherd, leads us beside the restful waters. He is telling you that the bond you share is not broken. It is merely held in a space where death has no dominion.

I want to speak to those of you who are watching from afar, perhaps carrying a cross of your own that feels too heavy to lift. Maybe you are a parent who has lost a child, or a sibling who feels the silence of a missing brother, or someone who is simply tired of the struggle. You feel like the other nine lepers—perhaps you feel forgotten, or far away, or like your prayers are hitting a ceiling. Hear the words of the Psalm: 'Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side.' You are not walking that valley alone. God is in the valley with you. He is the one who catches your tears. He is the one who understands the 'why' that you cannot answer. You don't have to be strong today. You don't have to have it all figured out. You only have to be present, like the one who returned to give thanks, and let the Shepherd lead you.

We are all, in a way, like Saint Martin. We are all walking through a world that is cold and often indifferent. We are all carrying our own cloaks, our own little treasures, our own fears. The call today is to be brave enough to share. If you are grieving, share your sorrow with God. Don't hide it. Don't pretend it isn't there. If you are feeling guilty, share that, too—pour it out at the feet of Jesus until it is gone. If you are feeling the love of Benjamin, share that with the world. Let his legacy flow like that well in Cà Mau, bringing life to those who are parched. Let his kindness be the way you speak to a stranger, the way you listen to a friend, the way you wake up and choose to keep going for his sake, and for the sake of the love that still connects you.

Benjamin is not a memory. He is a life that has been transformed, not ended. He is a part of the 'perfect four' that exists in the heart of God. He is watching over you, Alan, Thao, and Ryan, with that same gentle, braces-filled smile that used to light up a room. He is cheering for you as you navigate this new, difficult landscape. He is waiting for you at the finish line, where the math will finally make sense, where the planes will all be on time, and where there will be no more goodbyes.

So, what do you carry out the door today? Carry the freedom of the healed. You have been loved by a boy who knew how to give everything away, and you are loved by a God who gave His own Son so that you would never be alone. When you feel the ache, breathe in the grace of that reality. When you feel the weight, remember that you are an heir to eternal life. You are held. You are seen. You are home, even when you are walking through the dark. And that is enough. That is everything. Amen.