‘A life well-lived’

In the short years I’ve been at SMU, the dominant subject matter of conversations with friends, co-workers and fellow students was never death.

We talk about classes and grades. We talk about quirky professors and difficult exams. We talk about graduation, Jeremy Camp concerts and who makes the best pho.

And of course we ask each other for prayers for interviews, internships and the great mystery that awaits us after we walk off the stage with the diploma in hand.

I’m sure that these same issues dominated the conversations of Francisco Villigrán Molina, an SMU alumnus who passed away from cancer in January.

I’d been meaning to write about Molina, but I, like many others, was caught up in the political events of recent weeks.

I wanted to write about him because I’d never even met him.

I had the privilege to cover a memorial and dedication held in his honor in October. Family, friends, faculty and staff members all spoke highly of him.

They spoke of his intelligence. He made A’s and maintained a 4.0 GPA. He had planned to go into the Master’s operations program after graduation.

They told me how he would go through the chemo and experimental drugs and return to his studies as if nothing had happened.

They described how his physical vision virtually disappeared and his body slowly broke down over time. Yet he had vision for a great future. As an engineer, he wasn’t satisfied with simply embracing it; he wanted to be a part of it.

Perhaps his body was no longer suitable to contain the full depth of his heart or the strength of his spirit.

And they emphasized his faith.

His mother said that her family learned how to move through suffering rather than run from it. She said that rather than allow himself to be hindered by his poor health, Molina drew strength from it, the kind that kept a smile on his face all the time.

His father said he was an inspiration. Many agreed.

Why do we find stories like Molina’s inspiring? Why do we attack one another about morality and faith, yet when someone like Molina professes his love of God, we are speechless and inspired?

Because for some of us, faith is the only thing that can’t be taken away. Disease can destroy our bodies. People can break our hearts. Financial circumstances can take away our homes, cars and everything we put into them.

Buildings with our names will eventually crumble and our memories will be forgotten in future generations.

But faith can only be surrendered. And some people out there are willing to fight to the death before they give it up.

And even then, faith endures after death.

Molina has left quite a legacy. He makes an impression on us, whether or not we met him in life.

His short life, but nonetheless a life well-lived, demands that we ask ourselves what kind of legacy we wish to leave behind.

After all, like Maya Angelou referenced an anonymous quote, “People will forget what you’ve said. People will forget what you’ve done. But they will never forget how you made them feel.”

Christine Dao is a senior journalism major. She may be contacted at [email protected].