What Rob told me in his final moments

Several weeks ago I got a call from a woman on the West Coast. She told me her father Rob lived in the Black Hills and his health was deteriorating. The doctors said he didn’t have much time left, and she wanted to know if a rabbi could spend some time with him. She was very thankful when I told her I would be glad to drive from Sioux Falls. "Oh, and one more thing," she asked. "Does your wife make chicken soup? He would love that!"
Later that day I called Rob to tell him I had spoken with his daughter and that I would be coming to visit him with a bowl of chicken soup. When he asked if my wife also knew how to make “kreplach,” I knew this was going to be a very special visit. 
Little could I have imagined just how inspirational it would be.
After a long drive, I arrived at Rob’s place. He told me he had lived in the Black Hills for over fifty years. He was born and raised in Philadelphia, where he went to Hebrew school, his family went to Shul, and he had his Bar-Mitzvah. After serving honorably in the Navy he settled in South Dakota where he enjoyed the nature and freedom the state offers. 
We visited for over an hour. He told me that for all those years, he had no formal connection with Judaism. He often felt alone, but never forgot who he was. He said the attacks on Israel on October 7th, and hate marches against Jews in America since, had been deeply distressing and very awakening. He told me he was born as a Jew, and now that he felt his time had come, he wanted to be sure he would die as a Jew. When I asked him if he knew his Hebrew name, he proudly told me it was Ruven ben Avraham. I helped Rob put on Tefillin, his first time since leaving Philadelphia, but he still remembered the brachos and was able to say the Shema fluently. We also said Viduy together, the prayers traditionally said at the end of life. 
Not long after I visited, Ruven ben Avraham returned his soul to its maker. May his memory be a blessing.