Not unusual behavior for a preschooler, right?  It would seem pretty standard. Except that his five older siblings really never did this. (Yes, there are six kids in all. More on that another time. Stay with me.)

That’s right: none of the other kids ever carried a toy companion, had an imaginary friend, or created any sort of pseudo-best-friend.

But, those kids had each other. The older five kids’ ages span only seven years, so they always had playmates. As pre-schoolers, they played games together, built forts, performed plays, and were generally inseparable.

When faced with the rare moment that these kids found themselves alone, they panicked. After mere  moments on their own, we heard them say, “there’s NOTHING to do, can I have a play date?”

It was actually troublesome. In fact, during their elementary school years, I worked hard to encourage them to build playing-alone skills: teaching them how to play solitaire, buying single-player games, and arranging times for each child to spend entertaining him/ herself.

Now, there’s this littlest brother, who is seven years younger than his closest sibling. He doesn’t have the constant companionship of peers. He learned early how to entertain himself.

And, just as early in life, he created a best friend, in Cha-Cha The Monkey, to accompany him.

All this has me thinking about what social creatures we all are. This isn’t a revolutionary concept; there are many scientific studies that reinforce this theme.

But, to see our social nature play out in such real ways, every day, confirms for me that I must continue to focus on the right things.

Our lives, our world, and our experiences are meant to be shared. God has created a place where we depend on one another. Where we yearn to share our lives. Where we expect to give and receive. And where, if we foster our relationships, lives will be forever better.

So, I thank you for being part of my life. Your presence here, in my social circle, is appreciated. Your companionship is treasured. Thank you.

Like many, I could relate to his stories, his characters. Right now, though, I’ll share just the moment when I felt that John Hughes really knew me personally, understood me. (No, really.)

It was early 1987 and, like every other high school student on the planet, I had seen pretty much every John Hughes movie upon its release. Some Kind of Wonderful was about to arrive in theatres, and I planned to see that one too.

Coming home from school this particular day, I was elated to find a mysterious package addressed to me. Of course, I wasted no time: inside I found a John Hughes marketing kit — posters, buttons, “inside” info, some free music (cassettes? 45s? I can’t recall) and other movie paraphernalia. I pored over my new treasures all that evening.

The enclosed cover letter told me that I had been chosen to receive this kit because (well I don’t know what the letter really said; I was fifteen, so to me, I understood only that) I was the coolest teenager in the whole world, John Hughes knew that, and if I did a really good job making his upcoming movies successful, he’d give me a part in his next movie.

Yeah, pretty sure it was something like that.

As the evening wore on, I began to consider that all my friends probably received the same package, so I shouldn’t get too excited about it. Nevertheless, the next morning I pinned the Some Kind of Wonderful button on my backpack and went to school.

At my locker before the first bell, a friend asked me where I got the button. I, of course, was giddy that she had to ask. That day, I quickly learned that no one I knew had received this promo kit. I was truly destined to be the next Molly Ringwald. (Ok, probably more like Ally Sheedy. And not the made-over one.)

I walked on air for the next several weeks. The poster of Eric Stoltz and Mary Stuart Masterson on my wall was enough to pick me up from my deepest moments of teenage angst. My knowledge of details about a movie that was still filming (She’s Having a Baby) made me smile to myself at odd times during the day. No wonder my classmates thought me so odd.

Still, I did my best for Mr. Hughes, telling as many friends as would listen that these were the greatest movies of our time.

Years later, having seen Some Kind of Wonderful countless times, it remains my favorite John Hughes film. The recording of “This Woman’s Work” (featured in She’s Having a Baby) created in me a lifelong admiration for Kate Bush. If I really think about it, perhaps my love of marketing began the day I opened that package.

John Hughes never knocked on my door to offer me that movie role. Until yesterday, a tiny part of me held out hope that he still might.

And so, goodbye Mr. Hughes, with a belated but heartfelt thank you for the gift you sent me 22 years ago.

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.

As in, am I sure that I’m ready to depart from the company where I’ve worked for so long? Am I sure that I want to take this big a risk? Am I sure that I’m ready to leave behind the career that I’ve built here?

More than ever, I am sure.

In the past few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time connecting with dear friends, old and new. The conversations often start with that familiar “are you sure” discussion, and, somewhere in the middle, they fundamentally change. The concerned looks change to excitement. The worried questions change to congratulations. And the conversations end with the same, somewhat surprised, comment: “You look really happy.”

Then, this week I attended an event downtown, a presentation in the series “Conversations about the Future of Advertising.” I met amazing people there. I learned a lot. And – surprise – I talked a lot too. All the random thoughts about where I want to take my career came together as I talked with others.

For me, the conversations were enlightening, energizing, and a whole bunch of other e-words that befit a dialogue about social media and online advertising. I absolutely couldn’t get enough of it — both the possibilities and the challenges that lie ahead in this space.

I left knowing, without a doubt, that this is my future. This is where I belong. This is where I will forge my own future.

You’ll hear more from me soon, as I assemble my thoughts into a coherent strategy.

Until then, just know that I’m content. Excited even.

And yes, I am sure.