Childhood Memories
Carla Graziadei, Chiara’s sister, still resides in their native city of Trent in northern Italy.

I was the rambunctious one in the family, super lively and always wanting to play. When I did something naughty and was about to be punished, Chiara would always put herself between me and my Dad, who was very strict. Around the age of 12, I became intolerant of Sunday school, so she took it upon herself to teach me catechism. I’m 82 now and I still recite the prayer she taught me: “Jesus, I offer you my whole day. Let it be a continuous gift of love. Let me never be far from you in everything I do.” One day Mom asked her: “What do you plan to do with your life …? Do you want to be a nun?” Chiara was always so sweet, calm and constant in her prayers that Mom was convinced she would enter the religious life. Instead she replied: “Mom, I don’t want to be a nun or anything like that! I’d rather get married!” She loved a family so much.

Now I think she already had some idea of a vocation in mind, though she didn’t know exactly what it would be. In fact one day she went to pray in the little church of Saint Clare, near the hospital where our brother Gino worked as an assistant—she had always forbidden me to speak about this, but maybe now it’s okay. She was all alone, and kneeling in front of the tabernacle when she asked God for a sign: “If you want something from me, light up one of those votive lights.” (There were some unlit near the tabernacle.) And one got lit up, although there wasn’t even any oil in it. So, trying to discern God’s will, she asked for and obtained a room from the Sisters of Zion, who had their institute at the TB hospital, right next to the Capuchin Friars. A cousin of my Dad’s was the director of the hospital. We brought over some furniture from our home in Goccia D’Oro Street with a little cart. I remember it well because I helped push that cart, too! Natalia Dallapiccola joined her soon after.

She was her first companion. Anyway, they stayed there only one week, because then the nuns had to move.

Soon after, during the May 13, 1944 bombing of Trent, we all had to flee to the Goccia D’Oro woods and take refuge in a cave that still exists. We were Dad, Mom, my sister Lilliana and myself, all waiting there until we could move to Centa, a town up in the mountains. Chiara came to be with us for only one night. She brought us two mattresses and other things she had salvaged from our house, which was in ruins. Then she took me aside and told me: “Carla, don’t be upset when I tell Mom that I cannot come with you. I must stay in Trent with my companions.” I cried anyway, because I couldn’t understand why she wanted to leave our family. Later she spoke to Dad, and he supported her more than we could ever have expected.

Chiara told Mom: “I’m going to the Santa Chiara hospital to help Gino with the dead, then to a little house …” She meant the house in Cappuccini Square, which then became the first focolare center.

The Greatest Inheritance
Agnese “Lella” Pietrella is Chiara’s niece.

Her love for us was always there— not a generic love, but a great personal love for each of us. I saw that she took our problems upon herself; she listened to us without self-interest. Thanks to her living witness I found my way to God the Father and his freely given love. This is the best inheritance I could have received from her. Then we took different paths. After I got engaged to the man who’s now my husband, I joined the Neocatechumenal Way, however this brought us even closer, because our relationship now went beyond family ties. Lately, I saw [her illness] as the realization of St. Paul’s words, “In my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions.” There is no doubt in my mind that I witnessed the death of a saint, of a woman who always said “yes” to the Lord, fulfilling a divine plan that even her relatives may not have fully understood.

The last time I visited her at the Gemelli hospital, I brought her an icon of the Nativity painted by Kiko Argüello, the founder of the Neocatechumenal Way. Having placed it on her nightstand, I then took her hand and started talking to her. By that time, she could only say yes or no with her head.

Suddenly, I realized that she was staring straight in front of her, with her face serene and beautiful. I asked her, “Aunt Chiara, what are you looking at?” I turned around and saw that on the wall opposite her there was another image of the Virgin with the Child Jesus. I asked, “Is she talking to you?” She nodded. It was a moment of such intimacy that I almost felt like I shouldn’t have been there.

Close, Even If Far Away
Jacopo Lubich is the grandson of Gino, Chiara’s only brother.

When I was very small, every year on the feast day of St. Louis, I went with my parents to Rocca di Papa to Chiara’s house, to celebrate the feast day of the patron saint for both my great-grandparents (Luigi and Luigia). It was a day somehow beyond time and space. When I got tired of playing on the lawn, I would go in to see my parents, uncles, and aunts; the big luminous room made me feel I had entered a calm world, full of smiles, a radiant and moving world.

Chiara would be seated in an armchair, and everyone around her talking to her. At the time, I didn’t have any awareness how important her words were. I quickly took the presents she always offered me and ran outside to play again. It’s strange to think of it now; but I would have liked to stop that child and tell him, “Where are you going? You will find nothing important away from the words of your aunt!” In fact, Chiara’s family was much larger than the one I had imagined then: it was the whole world! We were always aware that her relationship with us and with others was inseparable from her ideal, her mission.

Since we were her closest family, we demanded more attention. But we knew that inside her there was something that went beyond blood connections.

She might have seemed to be a very busy aunt because of all her trips, but I must say she always seemed very close to us, even when she was on the other side of the world.

I remember the last time I saw her at home. It made me tremendously sad to see her so tired and worn out. It was hard to accept the fact that now she was immobile and vulnerable. Yet hers was the happiest death I have ever seen. I looked at her, knowing I was seeing her for the last time.

Yet when I brushed her arm with my hand, I knew that nothing was dying, that things were simply changing. I felt proud to be a Lubich.

Oreste Palliotti