My nephew, Christopher Madrigal, was only twenty-four years-old when God took him eleven years ago on July 7. Father Jarecki offered his Mass for Christopher here at Saint Benedict Center on the anniversary of his death. He was one of my sister and Albert Madrigal’s eleven children. Chris was a good practicing Catholic who loved his religion and Mexican culture. He spent a year in central Mexico living with a wonderful Catholic family, learning the language, and falling in love with the country and its people as he drank in the beauty that is unique to that land of sunshine. His greatest joy was when he visited the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Chris settled in Texas when he returned from Mexico and worked with youngsters for the Air Force Recreation Department I believe. After his death in 1999 the Air Force named a gymnasium in his honor. Chris died from a wound he received in an accidental explosion of a soda canister he was installing at a refreshment stand during a baseball game. Two weeks before the accident he had gone to see the base chaplain for a spiritual talk. Chris went to confession regularly and always wore the brown scapular. He was wearing it when he died on the way to the hospital. My fondest memories of Christopher are the times he came to visit my parents in Massachusetts. My father was bedridden and Chris would lie down next to him for the longest time and just lay his head on my father’s shoulder as he talked about everything. An unusual tribute was given to Christopher after his death by the girl he loved, the girl who also broke his heart because she didn’t have the same feelings for him. It meant so much to his mother. She said, “Chris was a very pure boy.” My nephew is buried next to his maternal grandparents, my mother and father, here at Saint Benedict monastery’s cemetery in Richmond, NH. Before the burial I wrote a poem, my only poem, to my beloved nephew. I titled it Look Here!
Heaven seems less distant now
For those of us with hand to plow;
Less dim, this land of joy unending
To turn from which is Grace preventing.
A rarer mist doth veil, what eye nor ear
Nor heart can scale to see the vision clear
Awaiting, drawing, ever closer with each breath.
Fear not. The Helmsman’s own hath conquered death.
And your’s though swift, in Him, doth give
Us quiet certitude you live.
And speak to us with light: “Look Here!”
Your lamp a painful beacon clear.
Christopher
I would have written, had I but known
Yet should have written, or used the phone.
Dear nephew, can I now bid
You take this should have I for did?
“Thank you,” I said, “Dear Chris’
For all your warmth and tenderness;
For causing Grandpa’s face to shine;
For holding Grandma’s hand in thine.
You gave them more than just a kiss.
A loving heart God can’t resist,
Nor Mary: Did you know that Chris?
And if you’d known angels cupped your smile,
Perhaps you would have frowned a while.
For loving hearts are doomed to bliss
Dear Nephew. Did you know that Chris?
I’m nursing rancor as thoughts pull anchor.
This errant mettle flexed to settle
The score. A fool. Emotions rule.
Should I protest your rest?
Young man, you barely left your nest.
You broke your mother’s heart last night,
And Grandma’s too; you hugged the Light
That giveth Life and sweet delight.
Oh Christopher!
Your father, can you ease his pain?
And bid God make him whole again.
Dear nephew, soldiers need their might
To carry on. to fight the fight.
Your mother’s faith will bear her through,
But Chris, she needs to hear from you.
And if your tongue cans’t not speak down,
Grandfather’s from a higher ground–perhaps
Can send her one sweet sound?
No. I ought not cast a question why
Our Father ‘creed that you should die
So soon; but Jesus measures not
In length of days the flaming heart.
The Book of Life–has your name written.
And one by one inscribed are smitten
Lest such pure souls be serpent bitten.
And good trees only good fruit bear,
Ruddy ripe, He saw yours hanging there.
It seems Good Jesus thought you fair
Enough to pluck you, Christopher.
On alone you went with no goodbyes,
Leaving sibling’s score of tear filled eyes,
And half as many wounded hearts,
All one in intermingling sighs.
Keith says for each and one and all:
We’ll miss you Chris until the Fall
Of life alerts us to your call
That Winter’s here, and you’re still praying
At that port, with anxious waiting,
With Mom and Dad, to take us home
And show us where you’ve lived so long.
So valiant one, you couldn’t wait
To see your two grandfathers’ state.
We’ll offer all not transitory,
The Mass, our prayers. that Purgatory,
Refine you beautifully for glory.
One final favor, Chris, you can’t forget:
Implore the Blessed Mother Mary,
Each one of us to carry.
Safe where you and Grandpa tarry.
Nevermore to shed a tear.
Evermore to love and cheer.
Numquam plus mala peccata
Tecum semper bene cantanda
Veni Jesus Rex Hosanna.
