For the three of us, myself, my wife, and our young-adult son, yesterday will be remembered as our final trip to my parents’ home in rural Missouri.

As has been the custom for decades, our family gathered at the property to celebrate Independence Day. Pulling into what was left of the gravel driveway, we noticed the activity of strangers. One my brothers came over to our vehicle and informed us that the family home, a small farmhouse on seven acres of land, had been sold earlier in the week and the new owners were there to begin the massive cleanup and repair necessary before occupancy could take place.

I was shocked, but not saddened. It’s been nearly five years since Dad died. Due to health and isolation, my mother was forced to move from the home over a year ago; the old, unoccupied farmhouse was well into the process of falling down around her when she left. Bereft of occupants, nature had been doing its best to reclaim the place since.

The new owners, a ridiculously young couple, appeared anxious to begin their plans: pumping water from the old basement, chasing out critters who’ve taken up residency, putting on a “real” new roof, and . . . beginning a life together. Only the most radical optimist – or the very, very young – could look at the place and conceive any form of possibility.

We moved there in 1968 when I was in grade school. I have a lot of good memories of the house and surrounding land. But standing before my childhood home yesterday and looking at its rotting carcass was not enjoyable. In the smallest division of a second I decided that moving on, mentally, would be a good thing.

After a picnic and some fireworks, we – the home’s previous family and our children – left. Independence Day next year, and all the years after, will be different.

I wish the home’s new family all the luck and success that God can give.

The 4^th of July – 

possibility wins its 

independence 

—G. Kinnard