Some might say that it is a small suburban bedroom community adjacent to the bustling metropolis of Kansas City. But is that all it is?  And are those of us who live here merely residents for a time, passing through on our way to something better, something more important, something….more? Or are we here for the long haul?

My husband and I have lived here for nearly ten years. During this time, we have learned a lot about what Independence is and what it has been. But we have also learned that it is up to all of us to decide what Independence will be.

Each of us has our own little space we call home. It may be a small starter home in an older neighborhood, a balconied apartment in a high rise building, a mobile home in a trailer court, or a mansion on a hill. Some of us are trying to figure out where to call home while sleeping in shelters—or the safest place we can find.

Our predecessors left us a colorful history to build upon. In the 1800s, Independence was a small town on the western frontier of the United States. Rough characters lived here, toughened by the circumstances which led them west, and even farther west. There were conflicts that resulted in some of the citizens being ousted for their religious beliefs. And there were dreams that led others through the adjacent Indian territory onward to California, Oregon, and Santa Fe.

I am one who believes that while Independence was just an outpost in the past—a stopping point along the way to somewhere else—its future is right here. And I’m guessing that many of you feel the same.

Why?

Because living in rural America is becoming the goal. People are moving from the expensive hustle and bustle of coastal regions and cement cities to find peace, a slower pace of life, a neighborhood where they can safely walk, jog, or just sit on the porch in the twilight of an evening. They want to know their neighbors and the local store owners. They want connection more than instant gratification. They want to create something for their children and grandchildren and beyond.

Since moving here, I have met many people who feel that they have been brought here by Divine Providence. And I am one of those.

I grew up four miles from the beach in sunny Southern California. But I too wanted something more. Something different than I had known. I dreamed of having a larger piece of property. Perhaps with a creek and large shade trees. I dreamed of being a writer—and of making a difference with that writing. And I was looking for a place where I could put down roots and stay not just for a time, but forever.

As a young girl in the 1990s, I had lots of dreams. One of them was the dream of having a large family of children—six, to be exact. And I dreamed of raising them in a happy, simple home, much like children were raised in the 1950s.

One day, while visiting a bookstore in Orange, California, I spied a greeting card that captured my attention. The image on the front was a beautiful golden-toned, 1950s-era kitchen with wide double-hung windows over the sink. Six children, boys and girls, lined up from tallest to shortest, were marching through the kitchen. They were wearing folded newspaper hats and banging on pots and pans as they went. Instantly I seemed to know—or hope—that this image was my destiny.

I bought the card and kept it for many years. Over time, in one of the various moves I later made, it was lost. But that image lives on in my mind.

I was never able to have children of my own, although for a short time I was a foster mom to teenage boys who brought me great joy. And my career path took me in a different direction too. Instead of being a writer who made a difference, I was a secretary, a personnel director, a case manager, and an administrative assistant. In those positions I used writing as a tool for documentation, procedures, manuals, and creating community education programs.

Sometimes life goes like that, doesn’t it? The best laid plans often get lost in the shuffle of making a living, of learning and growing, and sometimes of just surviving.

But like others in this community, I was eventually brought here by a spiritual prompting, and a subsequent job transfer. I had never anticipated living in Independence, but one day while riding back to the office with my new co-workers, an odd feeling came over me. It was like God said to me, “You’re here!”

I remember turning quickly to the left to look out the window of the back seat and seeing the spire of the Community of Christ Temple. Stunned, I whispered back to that voice, “You want me here?”

At the time I was looking for a home for my husband and me. He was out west packing up our belongings to load in a U-Haul truck while I was getting my feet under me in my latest administrative position. That day after work, I drove back up River Boulevard from my new office to the spot where that impression had come. There was a home for sale on the west side of the street, and I quickly parked and called the number on the for-sale sign.

The realtor kindly told me that the house was under contract. Closing was due to happen the next day. I asked for an update on whether the sale went through. Two days later the call came. That house was sold.

My heart stopped for a moment, but I knew. I was meant to be here, to live in Independence. It was so clear to me that after work, I again drove to the now-sold house, parked in front, and prayed.

“Heavenly Father,” I began, “this is where you told me you wanted me. But this house has sold. I can only guess that the house you really have for us is somewhere nearby. Please help me find it. Which direction is it from here?”

I didn’t have to wait long, for an almost-immediate impression came: Southwest.

I drove from River to Lexington, then turned right and drove around the curve. Not seeing any homes for sale, I turned right at Walnut and slowly went down the hill.

What is that in the distance? In the glow of the late afternoon sun, I could barely make it out. Is that a for-sale sign?

As I approached, it was as though someone I could not see grabbed the steering wheel and turned the car into the driveway. I had to stomp on the brake to keep from going through the garage door.

Yes, it was a house for sale. I called the realtor, Rhonda Farrell, who told me all about it. She didn’t use the word “vintage,” but she did say the house was unique. We made an appointment to meet several days later when she could fit me into her schedule, and I waited impatiently to see where God was going to plant us.

That Friday, after Rhonda unlocked and opened the door, I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Then, looking through the living room into the kitchen, I gasped and then fell sobbing to the floor.

Rhonda and I had met just moments before. I am certain she was stunned by my reaction, but she graciously said nothing and waited for me to compose myself.

When I could finally speak, I said through my sobs, “Please. Please sit down here. I have to tell you something.”

She lowered herself to the floor looking at me with kind eyes. Finally, I whispered, “This is my house.”

Through the doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen, I had seen the very kitchen that was on the greeting card I had bought as a 14-year-old girl. It had the same golden-maple cupboards and the same wide, double-hung windows above the sink.

I told Rhonda of the card, of the six children in it that I had dreamed of, but who had never come to me. But this house, this house was meant to be mine.

My husband arrived a few days later. When he saw the house, it immediately reminded him of his grandma’s house. He loved it as much as I did. It took a couple of months, but we finally succeeded in making the purchase.

Our bed frame was buried in a storage unit. So, on our first night in the house, we placed a new mattress and box spring on the hardwood floor. We left the windows open to let the cool breeze in. As I slept, I dreamed.

My dreams were of this house in its early years – in the late 1950s. I dreamed of wearing a vintage apron tied around my waist and of teaching children to make newspaper hats.

That night, as the whistles of several trains passed by, I found myself between asleep and awake more than once. Each time, it felt as if there was some kind of magical time travel happening, like I was between back then and now.

Such magical moments have continued to happen over the years. While cleaning the garage, another message came in a remarkable way. That message confirmed anew that this house had been prepared for me many years earlier.

But that is another story I will tell you next time . . .

In the meantime, consider this question, and consider writing down the answer for your children and grandchildren: What brought you to Independence?

Voices of Independence is a column devoted to telling the inspiring stories of Independence—then and now.

Each published story includes an introspective question for our community—your story matters. Share your answer with Cheri at: [email protected] Please include “Voices of Independence” in the subject line. Cheri reads every response and does her best to reply.

About Voices of Independence

Voices of Independence is a monthly column by Cheri Battrick, sharing personal stories, reflections, and the deeper meaning of community in Independence.

Cheri’s column is part of The Independence Standard—where local voices and in-depth reporting come together.

Truth. Clarity. Accountability. Faith in Action.

Until next time,

The Independence Standard is a locally focused publication committed to truth, clarity, and accountability.