ABC Nuestro Giuseppe Berdelli español: el último deseo de Don José, un servidor «esencial» (News story published 4 April 2020)
Fr. José loved to sing. He brightened the mornings of many patients receiving palliative care at the Laguna Care Hospital in Madrid. Once, he even appeared dressed as a mariachi alongside the singer son of a woman who was hospitalised. After she passed away, Fr. José Ruiz, the chaplain of this centre for terminally ill patients, embraced the young man as if he were a lifelong friend. Every Christmas, he would invite him to the hospital to touch the hearts of each resident with their duets.
Something similar happened with his dear friend Fermín, who passed away two weeks ago due to coronavirus. Fr. José could be considered our Spanish Giuseppe Berardelli. The priest from Casnigo, in the Italian diocese of Bergamo, died recently at the age of 72 after giving up his ventilator for a younger patient. The Italian priest died of coronavirus; the young man survived. In José’s case, however, his friend could not overcome the virus.
José had been Fermín’s faithful companion since he was widowed a month earlier. They kept vigil together at the bedside of Fermín's wife. The priest never left their side. After Fermín lost his spouse, José supported him through every meal, helping him navigate his loneliness. He listened to every call. But fifteen days ago, the coronavirus claimed Fermín’s life. A week ago today, the 80-year-old chaplain was admitted to the University of Navarra Clinic in Madrid. He passed away on Tuesday, 31 March, leaving behind a legion of healthcare workers and friends who could not bid him a final farewell.
Fr. José baptised, married, and provided attentive care in the paediatric unit, going to great lengths to fulfil the last wishes of patients. With Mateo, who suffered from ALS, he shared a deep love for flamenco. Mateo’s final grand celebration was held with a flamenco performance from Casa Patas, right in his hospital room in Madrid. After Mateo's farewell party, José was pleased and, as he always said, remarked, "I am here to serve." And serve he did, in the most essential way.
Fr. José did not start life in a cassock. He was not ordained until the age of 53. A long-time member of Opus Dei, he was an industrial technical engineer and a respected businessman with a keen intellectual drive, as his colleagues recall.
But for the last twenty years of his life, he decided that the two virtues his friends often highlighted should serve a greater purpose: "He always found the right words of affection, the timely joke. Even if you approached him with your worldly worries, he would make time for you, despite his heavy workload caring for the terminally ill, working all week, resting only on Saturdays. He always shared his quiet, contagious joy. He was an incredible man," says Ana, a colleague at the Laguna Care Hospital.
I am here to serve.
He would hold each patient’s hand, instinctively knowing what they needed. He had a gift for reaching into the hearts of others without judgement. That is why Don José was present at countless farewells and countless wakes.
A teacher for life's last chapter
Before his time at Laguna, he served as the Chief Chaplain of the National Police, where he conducted services and provided comfort to the families of terrorism victims. He continued to visit regularly, giving talks to officers and discussing current affairs.
He also attended medical conferences and trained hospital chaplains on how to provide end-of-life care, teaching about "what is morally acceptable and clinically feasible." At the end of his own life, no one doubts that, in less exceptional circumstances, "the queue to say goodbye would have stretched around the clinic."
Last year, he wrote an article for Holy Week in the supplement Alfa y Omega. He spoke of the miracle of Christ’s resurrection, the same Christ he would have helped carry the heavy burden of the Cross. The fact that José Ruiz passed away, touched by friendship, on the threshold of Holy Week, carries profound meaning.
Requiem for a man from the south
He was an Andalusian man, with the scent of manzanilla, freshly toasted bread, and churros dusted with heaps of sugar. A man from the south who held Madrid within his soul — a soul vast enough to contain the world. The walls of this place echo with rancheras and salves rocieras, filled with smiles and snores, tender caresses from a fatherly figure who affectionately called us by nicknames, cradling us in the arms of closeness.
The walls here resonate with memories of a forgotten Linares, both forced and invented. They breathe joy, morning gatherings at 8:30, and punctuality. They carry the essence of a good man, generous, with a heart dedicated to each soul that passed through, holding their hand as they journeyed to God. He devoted himself to accompanying and warming the hearts that had grown cold.
He was a man of spreadsheets, dedicated to others, guiding them towards the only path that leads to a Good Place. He was an engineer of love, a man of forgiveness and gratitude, a man touched by the divine who cherished the human. A good shepherd, wholly committed to guiding us, making us feel valued and important.
He was a man, a companion, a colleague. A beacon of light, with a gentle smile that warmly embraced and cleared the way ahead. He was full of life, and he filled the lives of others too. He reached deep, to the very core, like today’s sun, under which the bells continue to toll a requiem: a requiem for a man from the south.