I’ve learned in recent years that I am not comfortable with a lot of people, and a lot of people are not comfortable with me.

After spending the afternoon with Moise and Barbara Miller, our new Amish neighbors, I was surprised to learn that I was as comfortable with Moise as I have been with anyone I can recall except Maria.

Maria felt the same way about Moise and Barbara. They could hardly be more different from us, yet we connected on so many levels. We talked and walked easily for several hours.

I was writing in my study when the dogs started barking. I looked out the window and was surprised to see two Amish people – their clothes were unmistakable – walking along the road by our South Pasture.

I knew why they were there. They were coming to visit us, as Moise (some people call him Moses, which is what I first thought his name was) said he wished to do. And it was Good  Friday, a holiday for the Amish people.

I thought they would visit our animals, that it would be a short visit. It was nearly dark when they left.

We showed him our house.

He asked a hundred questions, mostly about the structure. They wanted to see Maria’s studio. They wanted to walk through our barns. They wanted to study our Pole Barn. They looked at our roofs; they marveled at our foundations.

They were curious about water and wells.

Moise understood early on that I know nothing about structure, and Maria knows a lot. The two talked like two old farmers going over the old days and the life of the farm.

Maria liked Barbara; the two talked easily.

Moise and Barbara wanted to walk into the back pasture and out to the woods. They asked about the sheep and the donkeys. They wanted to see the stream and the pond.

We showed them everything; I think more than we have ever shown anyone about the guts of our lives and farms.

It felt unprecedented, something we had never done before or even been asked to do. They reached deeply into our lives.

They came into the house, and we all sat in the living room and had tea. We talked about just everything there is for people to talk about – family, kids, death, faith, work; Moise has a hundred ideas for his new farm – goats, sheep, berries, vegetables, sheds, baked goods, and pies.

We talked about our lives and his.

Moise was especially interested to learn I was a hospice volunteer.

We talked about that for a long time. We talked about how the Amish take care of themselves, fend off the outside world, center their lives around God and family, forgiveness, and kindness.

We talked about how “English”(us) traditions and regulations often conflicted with their faith and values. “Can you imagine our children in public school?” he asked us.

No, I cannot, I answered.

We talked about how they look for and find “English” who can help them by making phone calls, driving them to bus stations and other places, and making phone calls for them.

We talked about how the Amish take care of their elderly, and never send them away to nursing homes.

We talked about why they came and their plans for their farm, and we told them why we had come and what our hopes were.

They have 13 children, seven of them still at home, and many grandchildren.

Maria asked Barbara what it was like to have so many children, and Barbara asked her if she had any children.

“No,” said Maria, “Jon has a daughter, but I have no children.”

Barbara smiled. “You’re a spring chicken,” she said.

Barbara said, having all those children had done in her legs.

Towards the end of the visit, Moise asked me if I might be interested in being a “death caller,” that is, neighbor relatives or friends could call if a member of the Amish community, close or far away, died.

The call might come in the middle of the night, he said. I would have to be willing to drop everything – even at 3 a.m. – and rush to his farm and wake him up, even if I had to bang on the door and come in shouting.

I could see he was worried about this job and very careful and thorough about asking anyone to do it. There was nothing casual about it.

Could I be counted on not to wait, to write down all the necessary information (many Amish people have the same last names)?

This was important, he said. The death might be 1,500 miles away, and he and his family might have little time to take train or bus reservations in time to get to a funeral.

If they didn’t have all the information, it might be impossible to know who had died and where they had to go to help bury them. He talked about the special rites and rituals involved in an Amish death.

I could tell this was important, solemn, a trusted honor.

He was so careful and detailed about the task and its importance. Was I afraid to think about death? Talk about it? Get involved with it? Would I want to wait until sunrise to tell him?

The conversation had gone deeper than I expected. This was a big deal for him and our friendship. I knew if I wasn’t sure, I shouldn’t agree to do it.

I told him about my reporting days, about the corpses I had seen, the bodies on the road, the murder victims I had written about and seen, and about my hospice work, about how death had been a part of my life for so long.

I would be faithful as a death caller,  I said, and I meant it. I wrote my numbers down on a piece of paper, and he got up and took it and folded it carefully in his pocket. He thanked me for agreeing; he seemed relieved. I felt honored.

Will you make sure to wake me up? he asked.

Don’t worry, Moise, I said if I get the call, I will be up on your hill in a flash, honking my horn, shouting and screaming, kicking in your door if necessary, and dragging you out of bed if you are in a deep sleep.

You needn’t worry about Jon, laughed Maria, this will not be difficult for him.

He smiled and nodded. I asked this: you live plain and simple lives, but they are often complicated, aren’t they? He and Barbara nodded and smiled.

It’s not easy to live simply in America.

Moise said he and his children would be happy to help us anytime we needed help – caring for the grounds, chopping wood, caring for the animals and the farm, moving heavy furniture, stacking wood.

I told Maria it felt as if we had gained powerful and caring new neighbors. And friends as well.

They had really taken the time to visit us and know us and to show us their own hearts and souls and vulnerability.

We asked a hundred questions of them, and they asked a hundred questions of us. We all talked openly with one another. We were direct; we talked and listened to each other. I heard about their struggles, and they heard about ours. We shared hopes and triumphs too.

They told us about the kidnapping of two of their daughters five years ago. The girls were recovered after two days. I realized they were two of the girls to whom I had been giving books.

They talked calmly about how it had affected their lives.  They said it was horrible. I thanked them for being trusting in the face of that.

They told me their children were especially fond of me, talked about me often, and loved the books I had been bringing them. You have great kids, I said.

They did beam at that.

Afterward, I offered to drive them home. Moise, as is his way, asked me a dozen questions about my car. That is his way; he wants to know how everything works.

Sorry, I told him, I don’t know how anything works. I’m a writer.

Before we left, Moise invited me to come up and watch him plow one of the fields with his sons tomorrow afternoon. You can take some pictures, he said (I know this means photos from a distance and photos of the horses).

Would you like to see my blog? I said after he asked me questions about it.

Moses came into my study to look at the blog, and  I scrolled down so he could see the photos I had published of his farm.  I showed him every photo and story I had put on the blog about his family and their work.

We had a great time laughing and smiling about the photos.

He loved seeing them, he said.

He asked if it would be possible for me to print some out. I could tell he was pleased. He wanted to bring the children back to the farmhouse to see them.

An Amish carriage came trotting by on the road as Moise stood over my shoulder, and I sat there, and I grabbed my Iphone and snapped a photo.

It was a surprisingly intimate moment for both of us. The horse and cart completed the circle – him, me, Barbara, Maria, my photography, our house, his family.

Showing him my blog that way was amazing; it was like going back in time and showing someone the future.

We both felt the connection of the moment; it all seemed to come together. He got me, and who I am and what I do. He had worked at it. He was neither impressed with me nor put off.

It just was what it was. His horse, driven by his child, in my window, both of us looking out at it.

Of course, I said. I’ll get some pictures printed out. I saw it dawn on him that the blog was a good way to sell soap and baked goods and vegetables; I could almost hear his mind spinning.

I handed him one of my books, Saving Simon, and he thanked me.

I drove him home, and his little dog Tina, whose right leg was partially sawed off by a mill saw, came out to greet us. She jumped up and licked my face; I saw she was a good part border collie.

Tina sleeps in their house, which surprised me.

Moise said he was worried about Tina; he thought she was losing weight.

I asked him what he was feeding her, and he said it was something they bought at the Dollar Store; he wasn’t sure what. I asked if I could see it. He brought it out.

Moise, I said, let me get some dog food for you if that’s all right. He seemed surprised to hear dog foods were very different.

I drove home and grabbed a bag of the Purina Pro Plan, the special kibble we have for our dogs. I drove back up to Moise’s farm and handed him the bag. He invited me to come in.

I thanked him and said no, I had work to do. The afternoon had been so sweet; I was afraid of breaking the spirit.

He took the food for Tina; I said one cup in the morning, one in the evening. He nodded.

I looked down and saw Saving Simon in his hand. I must have looked surprised. I thought his kids might want to read it.

“I’ve started reading your book,” he said.

Something in me wanted to cry.

It was a beautiful and powerful afternoon all on its own.

It was also special in a different way. It was the first time in more than a year that Maria and I talked to anyone face-to-face for that long and that easily. The pandemic really is ending.

There is something wonderful about humanity when I see it and respect it in myself and others. It is magical, it can go through rock and time and the greatest of differences.