This week I had the opportunity to visit an old friend. One that I met when I was 13, and had last seen about 20 years ago.  We have kept in touch annually, through Christmas cards and the like, but had not met in person since college.

On Thursday, I visited Becky* and her family, who live a couple hours’ drive outside of Minneapolis, on a communal farm. Hers and four other families live in a “fellowship,” where they live simply, share what they have, homeschool their kids, and spend a lot of time in worship.

Becky – who now goes by her given name, Rebekah – has two children. Malachi, nicknamed Chi, is twelve and little Calla is six. (Becky’s husband Greg wasn’t home so I didn’t get a chance to meet him.) The kids are beautiful, polite, sweet. They told me about their lives, and their love of the fellowship’s animals: horses, chickens, and sheep, among others.

Soon after arriving at Becky’s house, we meandered to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Becky makes many meals from scratch, both giving to and taking from the fellowship’s communal cupboard. For lunch, she used ingredients from bulk containers – a gallon of honey, a quart of mustard – to make dressing for our chicken salad. (The chickens had been raised by the fellowship last year.) Our dessert, fruit with yogurt sauce, included homemade yogurt from another fellowship member.

After lunch, we moved to the living room and continued our conversation. Becky showed off her family’s new television, a 19″ tube television connected to a VCR. Videotapes sat in a cupboard – Daniel Boone, Old Yeller, My Friend Flicka, and other staples of a bygone era. I learned that twelve-year-old Chi has already become enamored with the TV, wanting to watch it more often than his parents find appropriate.

I didn’t see much of Chi – he was outside in the barn for most of the afternoon. Beautiful Calla stayed in the house with us, often carrying one of the family’s two-week-old kittens. She talked of her favorite TV show, Daniel Boone, and showed off her homemade rifle, made from a long tree branch, with a bit of hardware fashioned into a trigger and scope.

Throughout the day, Becky talked of her lifestyle. She loves that her kids have “a wholesome life.” She learned to cook (”something I’m not very good at,” she said) from other ladies in the fellowship. She teaches her children, occasionally expressing doubt about her own abilities as a teacher. And she apologetically talked of her longtime friends’ assessment of her lifestyle as being like Little House on the Prairie.

Of course, the elements of this life are so different than my family’s. My kids are techies; each has an ipod (including the four-year-old) and they all love video games. On busy nights, they heat up Easy Mac for dinner — in a microwave that I’m sure would seem quite foreign to Calla. They participate in school activities and sports. They ride city buses.

What may seem odd is that, to me at least, Becky’s life and mine didn’t feel all that different. We agree on the virtues of a simple life. For her, this is an everyday experience; for me, this is cabin life. Our families are both strong in our faith. The expressions of our faith are very different, but our desire to serve God is the same.

Still, there is a part of me that worries about Becky. She has grown quieter, more subdued than she was years ago — probably more notable to me, as I’ve grown louder and bolder with time. Her laugh is a mere chuckle. Her smile is shy. And her voice is soft.

I pray that she has not given up a part of herself as she strives to be a good wife and mother. I pray that her passing comment about her less-than-perfect marriage is a reflection of the idiosyncrasies in every marriage and not a mournful regret. I pray that her children will grow up to be strong and ready to experience the larger world, full of bureaucracies, health insurance, taxes and YouTube.

And most of all, I pray that the last 20 years of life have given her fulfillment and joy. Because while I understand the appeal of living in a bygone era, I hope that she has received as much as she has given.

* Not their real names. I didn’t ask permission to write about them.