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Five years ago, on July 17, 2020, we lost more than a congressman. We lost a moral compass, a bridge-builder who never stopped marching. John Robert Lewis wasn’t just a figure in our history books; he was the walking, breathing blueprint for how to love a country that doesn’t always love you back, and still demand it do better.
Born in 1940 to sharecroppers in rural Alabama, Lewis rose from the red clay of the Jim Crow South to the marble halls of Congress. But he never forgot where he came from. He never stopped fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.
At just 23, Lewis stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, the youngest speaker at the March on Washington. Two years later, he was nearly beaten to death on the Edmund Pettus Bridge. That scar on his head? It was more than a wound. It was a badge of honor, the price of peace paid in blood.
As chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, he was arrested over 40 times in the 1960s. Each time proved that civil disobedience wasn’t about chaos but clarity. That kind of courage doesn’t fade with time. It evolves.
In 1986, Lewis brought his activism into Congress, where he served Georgia’s Fifth District for 17 terms. But don’t let the suit fool you. He was still a street soldier, still pushing for voting rights, still making “good trouble,” still lifting his voice when silence would’ve been easier. He fought for healthcare, education, and helped build the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture so our stories would never be forgotten again.
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Even after his pancreatic cancer diagnosis in 2019, Lewis didn’t slow down. He knew the power of his presence and the weight of his name. “I have never faced a fight quite like the one I have now,” he said. But he didn’t flinch. And when he passed away at 80 in the same city he’d served and loved, his final journey was poetic. He crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge one last time, this time in a casket draped in the stars and stripes he helped redefine.
He made history again, lying in state at the U.S. Capitol Rotunda, the first Black lawmaker to receive that honor. Lewis didn’t seek monuments. He was building a movement.
From Ferguson to Minneapolis, his words still echo: “Get in trouble — good trouble, necessary trouble.” The baton he carried is now in our hands. And the question is, what will we do with it?
John Lewis showed us that democracy isn’t a guarantee. It’s a fight. A fight we must wage with dignity, with purpose, and with love.
May we rise like Lewis did. May we march like he did. And may we never stop until justice truly rolls down like a mighty stream.