Memories of Ruben

It's been almost 9 years since Ruben died.  It's not something I've really talked about much.  I'm not really sure what to say about it now.  He was just a big papa bear.

I remember the first time I met him -- this big, intimidating-looking Mexican guy coming up to me to introduce himself.  He was probably about the 100th person I'd met since moving to Texas.  Not long after, he and his wife invited me over for lunch with them, their 4 kids, and another gal.  I felt so awkward.  I didn't know what to say or what to do.  I hadn't really been around families like that in years -- rarely around mine, and less around my extended family.  I didn't know what to say or do.  And I was in such a swirl -- had only lived in Texas for a couple months, missed all my friends in Michigan, missed friends and family in Nebraska, and the Waco atmosphere was already getting to me, plus a slew of other crazy things.  I left thinking, "Great, they'll never invite me back."  But the next time he saw me, he came right up with a big smile and said, "So, when are you coming over again?"  Like I was family, and it was expected.

Silly me... I felt so awkward that I was hesitant and didn't take advantage (in a good way) of his and his family's kindness.  He always seemed so happy to see me.  He always gave me a big hug.  He'd always joke with me about how lousy the Huskers were and how great the Longhorns where.  He was always willing to help.  I didn't want to impose.  Finally, I woke up one day and realized -- he really means it.  I'm not going to impose.  And that was the last time I saw him conscious.  Later that day he went in for tests for his liver, I don't even know what exactly happened, but he ended up unconscious and never woke up again.

I rode up to Dallas, a 2 hour drive one way, with a few other people to visit him in the hospital.  They'd known each other for years, me only a year.  They spent the whole drive talking about college memories, reminiscing, talking about people and places long gone that I'd never met or seen.  I wanted to join the conversation, but just couldn't figure out how.  So I sat largely in silence on the drive up and back, seeing Ruben unconscious in the hospital between the awkward legs of the journey.  He died not long after that.

For some reason, I felt like it wasn't right for me to cry.  I thought I hadn't known him long enough.  He wasn't my dad or technically a family member.  I did everything in my power not to cry at his funeral.  A couple tears did find their way out, but I really wanted to lay on the floor and weep -- sad for his family, sad for myself, kicking myself for being so slow to realize I was welcome, angry at God for taking him away the moment I realized it.  But I didn't weep or cry or yell or even express anything that I was feeling.  I mentioned to the church counselor that I didn't know how to respond, I wanted to cry, but felt guilty because I wasn't in his family -- wasn't I being selfish?  She said I needed support his wife -- which I wanted to do, but it was also confirmation that it wasn't okay for me to be so upset about his death or to cry.  (A couple years later I realized this wasn't true.)  But because I felt like I needed to be so... unmoved, I felt more awkward and disconnected from the rest of the family.

 His son is just like him.  Welcoming, big heart.  Great kid.  Wow.  He's probably 22 or 23 now.

Out of everything in Waco, everything with Ruben and his family is my biggest regret.  Why was I so dense??!  That last day, he gave me a ride to work from church (I didn't have a car at the time), after an early morning prayer meeting during a church-wide fast.  I walked into work that day thinking, "Duh, Dina.  He was totally happy to give you a ride to work.  You don't have to worry."  I knew him for 15 months out of 36 years, and 9 years later, I'm still crying that he's not here.