Over Easy

Last week I had some fine quiche. It was light and fluffy, made with eggs fresh from the farm of wise friends. They're old friends of our family--they first met our clan at Koinonia in 1965, and have kept in touch over the years. Never a part of our everyday lives, they've been in and out, and they shared with me their perspectives on our family from a distance.

She told the story of bringing a big ole casserole to help feed the helpers moving our family into Cabbagetown in 1967 (you can check out the Cabbagetown link). Having already met us at Koinonia and knowing that our family had moved from Birmingham before that, she had some concerns on that November day. Why was this father of four moving his family into riskier and riskier situations? To Birmingham at the height of the violence there, to Koinonia in the midst of the boycott, and now, as a civil rights activist, bringing his wife and daughters into a blue-collar white neighborhood. It made her appreciate her own steady husband.

And he talked about the atmosphere of the civil rights era. "It was hard," he said, "and yet there was an exhilaration about it. You were on the edge a lot." Which, of course, is right where Dad was drawn, time and time again. He was a passionate man. He craved that exhilaration.

As my friend mused, it does make you think about the whole question of whether the man makes the history or the history makes the man. Chickens and eggs. And mighty fine quiche.