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It’s hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to recall sweetness and hope. We have no scars to show for happiness. And we seem to learn so little from peace and love.

For most of my life, I have been aware of having pain in my heart. But it was only a few years ago; I realized that every human being has pain in their heart.

In our world, people share their pain openly and continuously with others and seek both comfort and soothing. At times, I think new messaging technology brings people in pain together. Other times I think this new messaging culture enables pain and prolongs it.

On the medium we call social media, pain is passed back and forth like trading cards in an old candy store. It’s sometimes hard for me to know what’s mine and what’s someone else’s.

I want to keep my pain; I don’t care to give it away.

I’m afraid I disagree with the idea that time heals all wounds; I think time teaches us how to live with the pain that is a part of being human. I don’t want to forget the pain. I want to remember it, understand it, learn from it.

It is a powerful teacher.

Pain is a crop that I harvest and flip over. Pain, seen honestly, is a path to glory for me.

What I have learned is that pain is not unique to me or anyone else.

I’ve learned that pain is not a license for self-pity or self-hatred. I have no right to speak poorly of my life.

I have learned that everyone has it worse than me. I have learned to cherish the boundaries around pain. I won’t take in the pain of others. I don’t give my pain away to anyone else.

I’ve learned that not all pain is real. There is false pain and true pain.

Pain for me is a personal thing and a private thing,  not something to be put on Facebook or Twitter as bait for sympathy and attention. Speaking only for myself, pain is something I have to work out for myself. Otherwise, it just keeps hurting and growing.

At first, I thought my pain and my heartbreak were unprecedented in the history of the world. But then, I looked, listened, cried, read, and came to understand pain is one of the most common things and feelings. Everyone knows it and has met pain.

I don’t know a human being who doesn’t know pain, most of it far deeper and more scarring than mine.

If one breathes, they have known pain.

I’ve chosen to turn my pain into wisdom and transfer it to good. That’s what mean by “harvesting” pain.

If I feel pain, I can use it to help others feel less pain. In a way, that’s what the Army Of Good is all about.

A new resident of the Mansion took me aside the other day; he was embarrassed and hesitant. He asked me for help in buying a shaving brush. His was so old he could barely shave without cutting himself and leaving stubble.

He was uncomfortable; he felt dirty and unkempt. He was mortified at not being able to shave in the way he always had. He said he felt like a bum. I asked him if he had shaving soap, and he didn’t. I am getting him both.

In my mind, this turns my own hurt into a salve; it makes another person’s pain less. My pain melts away when I am helping someone else.

The Man in the Mansion will be happy when he gets his brush. I will be happy to give one to him.

That is a perfect way to use pain and feelings of failure and loss into something valuable.

I go by this rule:  Everyone has it worse than me.

A close friend fell and broke a leg a month ago and tells me often that it was the worst imaginable experience and she will never get over it or recover from it.

I want to offer sympathy and love, but she has given herself all the comfort one could want. Her pain was real, but there was no room for anyone else’s.

Her Facebook page is a testament to her grieve and struggle.

She has no sympathy left for people whose homes have been burned to the ground, or whose neighbors have been swept away by the flood, or drowned in roadways, people whose grandparents died from heat exposure when their power was lost, or whose cousins died of stroke or Covie- 19.

I am on a spiritual path, which means I fail as much as I succeed. I don’t need to be a saint to be a spiritual being; all I need is to keep thinking and trying – not to quit. usw

I’ve learned not to try to feel the pain of others. It is theirs; it is not mine to take. Eventually, they will hate me for taking it.

I don’t want to be a pain thief, taking in the pain of others so that I can feel sorrier for myself or better about myself. I am learning to empathize with the pain of others but to never take their pain and make it mine.

More and more, I believe we are ultimately responsible for ourselves. Pain is not something to give away lightly.

Every day I call a friend of mine who is dying and tell him stories of the outside world. When I get off the phone, I tell myself that I can feel all the sympathy I want, but his pain is not mine; other people’s pain will paralyze me and prevent me from loving the way I am called to love.

I respect the pain of others, so much so that I will never try to take it from them.

One of my spiritual challenges is learning to distinguish my pain from others attached to me but are not truly mine.

And this was a new and important idea for me; I never thought of making a distinction between my pain and the pain of others.

I thought a good human being was one open to everyone’s pain.

The more pain I took in, the better human I was. This was false.

Hospice was the beginning of my understanding that the truly human thing was almost completely the opposite of what I believed. The truly human thing was to respect the pain of others and to listen, not drink it in. This, I found, made them more comfortable and took the pressure off me and my feelings off of them.

We are not here to absorb the pain of others, to reassure them that life would be successful for them. We are there to stand in the doorway and listen. Nobody can absorb the pain of other people and survive.

The last thing the sick and dying need is to soothe and comfort them.

I give them the pain that is theirs, so I keep the pain that is mine.  I believe there are things to be acknowledged but not share.

I understand I am swimming upstream. I shake my head when I see all the online tributes to dogs that died years ago and how much pain people are still in about it. Perhaps there is no statute of limitations about pain.

Perhaps there is one about suffering.

One of the social media challenges is that so many people use it to put their pain onto me or others. I will never get used to total strangers telling me what I think and feel.

When I feel rejected, a failure, inadequate, or a misfit, I have learned not to let these feelings pierce my heart and enter my consciousness.

I am not a failure; I am not a misfit. I am learning to disown that kind of pain as false and meaningless. It is always a struggle to keep distinguishing the real pain from the false. Those struggles have taught me a profoundly important lesson about separating real pain from imagined or false pain.

If I am faithful to the struggle and keep seeing the truth about myself, I will have my real pain as a path to the spiritual life I seek.

I am delighted to share a happy ending story for a dog in trouble.

This tale involves a Shepard mix now named Eric (under the carriage in the photo above) rescued by a woman in our town three years ago from a local animal shelter.

Eric (not his name then) was a nightmare, when he was adopted a bad choice for an older woman living alone in a small house with little land.

He was wild in the house and destructive. He ran off every time he could, and pulled the woman to the ground when she tried to walk him.

He ran off whenever he was good, chewed up furniture, and resisted any training. He was, she always said, a sweet dog at heart, and she knew her home was the wrong place for him.

His owner was equally sweet and loving; I happened to know her. She told me about her plight with Eric, and I urged her to find a new home for him.

She was frantic but loved him. I knew it could never work, and human and dog were suffering.

I had given her my talk about the best way to get a dog, but like most people, she ignored me.

It just was the wrong fit for a dog who needs someplace to run in a house where the elderly human lived alone and gad a bad leg. There was nowhere for him to run.

She had to crate him for much of the day, he was just too wild.

People often get dogs in an impulsive rather than considered way, and the dogs often pay for it. Both of them were paying for this decision.

One day earlier this year,  Eric’s owner read my blog and learned that some Amish families had moved to the area.

The woman read about Jacob, Moise Miller’s brother in law and the former turkey farm he had purchased on the Southern edge of our town. It has nearly 100 acres. She knew the Amish handled animals well.

She brought the dog to Jacob and his family, and it was love at first sight, on both sides. They adopted the dog on the spot and named him Eric.

It was really as good at fit as the other was wrong.

The Amish, who have a reputation for mistreating animals (apparently, sometimes true, but not always), also have a great understanding of dealing with wild creatures like Eric.

They are overly associated with abuse and underappreciated for their knowledge and understanding of animals.

Yet another instance of the dangers of stereotyping.

The Amish flip dogs all the time; they flip horses in the same way. Almost every Amish farm has a dog-like Eric, a mixed breed with great energy and protective instincts, but a solid disposition.

They don’t like having dogs aggressive dogs around. Trust is important to them.

They have been living every day of their lives with dogs and horses for five hundred years. They know a lot about how to handle them.

Their ideas about teaching them are somewhat similar to their ideas about their children – they trust them, leave them alone, give them work to do, and do not shout at them or criticize them or overlove them.

There are no helicopter moms in the Amish world.

Children are given space to figure things out, have problems, and solve them to live in trust and safety. They are not programmed and supervised every minute of their lives.

That’s their idea about dogs. It’s mine also.

Their farm was the perfect place for Eric.

He could run and run and wear himself out, find an outlet for his explosive energy. He seemed to find himself there. I saw him a month ago, and I saw him this morning. The change was striking. Dogs live to serve and be needed, and given the chance, they figure out what is wanted of them and are happy to do it.

Few people take the time or give them the opportunity to just be dogs. They will often do the rest.

Jacob told me that Eric ran off once  at first and came home limping. I can just imagine.

He never ran off again.

At first, Eruc was tied to the barn. As he calmed down, he was given more freedom.

He is free to roam now. He loves the horses and runs alongside them in the pasture. When the sun is out, he sleeps beneath the carriages while the horses wait to go out.

Otherwise, he lives and sleeps in the barn, the temporary home of the family. They will move to a new permanent home early next year; Eric will live with them in the house.

Eric’s work is to greet visitors, alert the family to strangers, be a fire alarm. Jacob hopes to teach him some herding – shepherds are herding dogs.

Because he can run, he has settled down. He can burn off that energy any time he wants.

He loves to be patted and scratched.

When I come, he comes out, sniffs my leg, licks my hand, and then goes back under the carriage or into the barn. He has damaged or destroyed nothing that does not belong to him.

“He just fit right in,” said Jacob, who couldn’t imagine the dog in a crate all day.

He follows the children all over the farm as they pick crops, help with chores, carry wood, sell soaps and baked goods. He is too tired to run off or cause trouble, and he takes his responsibilities seriously.

I think he longer remembers that side of himself.

He is a content animal, grounded and alert. As with most Amish families, the family doesn’t  talk to him a lot; there are no treats, no trips to the vet, no furbaby talk.

People often feel guilty about giving their dogs away for a better life, but that is a mistake. Eric isn’t pining away for his farmer home, he is too happy and too busy.

And his owner, who loved him enough to better his life, is going get herself a small dog to live inside of her small house.

Eric reminds me very much of Tina; a dog permitted to be a dog; who keeps an eye on things.

I asked Jacob and one of his sons how they trained him so quickly and so well.

Jacob looked surprised. “We just let him be a dog,” he said. The world of social media is filled with sad and sorry stories about dogs.

I am pleased to be able to present a happy one.

Towards the end of March 2020, just after we raised enough money for an industrial-grade disinfectant fogger for the Mansion (and for Bishop Maginn), the Mansion went into quarantine and stayed there until last week.

It was a hard year for everyone and especially challenging for vulnerable people on the edge of life, dependent on others for their most basic care and survival.

According to the government, Covid-19 had claimed the lives of 100,000 long-term care residents and staff as of November 24, 2020. The disease our President claimed was not nearly as bad as the flu was devastating one nursing home and assisted care facility after another.

It was an absolute nightmare.

I was told I couldn’t go inside any longer and that the residents would have to be isolated from one another. The resident’s families couldn’t visit; they could no longer go outside or on outings.

They had to spend hours and hours alone in their rooms for days at a time.

Therapy dogs were no longer permitted, with or without their handlers.

The staff and management were almost instantly swamped and terrified by the horrific stories of elder care facilities.

The steady stream of communications I was used to stopping almost immediately. I understood. Things were bad, terrible.

Life turned upside for the residents, and for me, a volunteer used to visiting frequently. I knew all the residents, laughed and joked with them, knew their needs and wants, got shoes, bras, soap, deodorant, crafts, and arts, got them on boat rides.

I knew the aides. Also, we knew one another and worked together.

Much of that stopped.

The Mansion staff was almost instantly on a kind of emergency/war footing.

Everything inside changed – where people sat, ate, how they interacted and communicated, how every surface needed to be scrubbed several times a day. Masks had to be worn, staffers and residents tasted; nothing was permitted into the building that couldn’t be tested.

Week after week, the aides grew weary, worked long hours, felt helpless. The residents got depressed, sluggish, some lost focus, and cognitive sharpness.

The staff exhausted itself, and many worked round the clock to keep the residents safe. I got frantic messages from the residents wondering where I was, why I didn’t come any longer.

I couldn’t see it, but I heard about it and asked about it.

We could still help – catered meals for a chance of a place, ice cream sundaes, books, music, light shows, Christmas lights all kinds of arts and crafts, and games and music.

Today, I was eager to see what had changed. Almost everything had changed.

I saw trauma victims, weary and battered but very committed people. Some people looked dazed, some pleading.

The aides tell me we in the Army of Good made a difference, but I could sense from their fatigue and worry that the pandemic had taken an enormous toll on everyone, aides and residents and families. There is nothing worse for a caretaker than to be helpless in the face of suffering.

The fates rewarded their hard work. Some people got sick; a few people got the virus early this year,  others died of natural causes. A year is a long time in the Mansion. But the staff should be proud of themselves; They held off the demons.

Everyone is vaccinated now; people are beginning to breathe and settle.

I knew the staff was anxious about the emotional and cognitive tolls the residents’ isolation was taking on them; some talked to me about it.

The residents ate alone for months, spent most of the day alone, and the games and activities had to be radically reduced or canceled. There was no choice.

Only a few masked and distanced people could go anywhere together, be with each other at any time.

Meditation class today

This week I was allowed back in with Zinnia, and I was much touched by the joy and excitement our visit caused.  I was tested, sprayed, and had my temperature taken.

The aides warned me that this year was a serious setback for some residents; they became depressed, sluggish, and experienced dementia. Some died. They ached to see their families, their sons, daughters, and grandchildren. It felt, said one, as if their whole lives had been taken away.

Today, I felt the impact of that year.

I saw it in the aides’ worn faces, in the confusion and anxiety of the residents. I had five residents at my story reading Tuesday – I used to have 15 and five today for my meditation class.

That’s how it needs to be.

Zinnia brought a lot of smiles. Some things felt normal.  Peggy needs sports bras. Claudia wants some sneakers. Nancy wanted cigarettes (sorry, can’t do), Bill got his belt, but needs shoes.

Those who could come – only a few were permitted –  were eager and grateful for my meditation lesson. After breathing and talking, we sat in silence for 10 minutes, interrupted only by aides coming into offer medicine.

Madeline, the most spirited and talkative of the residents I knew, sat silently; I’m not sure she remembered me at all. She loved the puppy Zinnia but didn’t seem to notice her today.

“How are you?” I said. “Did you come to bring me ice cream?” she asked.

We all used to sit in a tight circle in meditation class, holding hands and talking softly to one another, we were all distanced today, it will take some getting used to.

I gave everyone some meditation necklaces; they seemed to love them.

Most of the residents remembered Zinnia and me, and we laughed and talked and told stories about 2021. Some asked for Maria, who they love.

At the end of the session, all of the residents were asleep.

At the end of the meditation, almost everyone but one had drifted into a soft kind of sleep, just what I like to see. Frightened people don’t fall asleep. The one thought I had come to bring food or medicine.

I felt a good measure of guilt. I did what I could during that hard year; we did what we could; I wish I could have done more. It’s a mistake to look back. Guilt is pointless.

There is a lot I can do now.

I’m back reading once a week, meditating once a week. Maria has been asked to resume her art classes, we’re visiting the Mansion together next Tuesday.

Zinnia will visit the residents who want to see her. Almost all of them do.

It’s a different place in many ways. I think it will take some time to get back to normal.

It feels different; it looks different. To get in, The dining room has been moved into the big room, and the residents all eat distanced from one another.

I can see, hear and sense the pain and fear and the meaning of losing a year.

One of the residents told me, “losing a year for us feels like a lifetime.”

I’m thinking of things I can do to help break the spell – meals, outings, boat rides, things to lift their spirits, bring them back to life, and pull their hearts and souls out of this awful year.

There are a number of new people to meet, and some of my friends are gone. I’ll find out more over the next few days and weeks.

My heart goes out to the aides. “It was awful watching them deteriorate week after week,” she said, “we couldn’t do anything about it. It was awful.”

I’m happy to be back. A lot of my own soul lives in that place. I have people to know, trust to earn. Right now, many of them are wary of the world.

The Mansion residents paid a heavy price for being old.

I hope I never again hear anyone say that the virus was a hoax and there is no need for vaccines.

There is also hope. The days are longer and warmer, and the residents can sit on the porch and take walks again. They are getting ready to plan the garden with the strong summer tools we bought them.

I hope to raise some money for them to go on outings again (Mansion Fund via Paypal, [email protected], via Venmo, [email protected], by check, Mansion Fund, PO. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816).

I’m bringing food gift cards to some of the aides this weekend. I’m going to think about how we can lift some spirits.  Thanks for hanging in there with me, with them, with humanity in a cold world.

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.

I figured out today that one of the Amish families who moved into our community recently lived an easy walk from our farm. When we saw the “Baked Goods For Sale” sign, I knew it was them.

The minute I pulled up the dirt road and onto their farm, they know who I was and asked me about the sheep and donkeys.

They had built three new and large white buildings – a house, and what I assume is a barn. About a dozen horseless carts were lined up near the house.

I assumed they make them for sale to other Amish families.

They knew the farm. They asked me about my work, Maria, and her yellow studio and what she did there. They asked if I would consider being a “bus” friend and drive them to bus stations if they needed to visit relatives or take a trip.

I said I would be delighted. Two other neighbors have also agreed to help with “bus” runs.

I met six children, they were perhaps the nicest,  most courteous, and interesting kids I can remember meeting.

Lena brought me a cherry pie – their pies are legend – and I insisted on paying $8 for it. The kids also knew about Maria, and that we had visited another Amish family on the other side of town yesterday and bought some soap.

Joe, one of the two boys I photographed hauling a wagon of round baled hay Tuesday, came up to introduce himself. He also asked what I did, and I told him I was a writer.

He said he loved to read, and I asked him what he loved to read.

He said the Hardy Boys were his favorite; he had only read one. I was obsessed with the Hardy Boys when I was young, I read every book a hundred times.

When I came home, I ordered him a full set. I can’t bear it when somebody who loves to read has no books.

Laura One and Laura Two – one was about six, the other ten –  asked if they could come and visit the sheep and the donkeys, and I told them we had a lamb also, and they got excited. I think we’ll be seeing them soon.

The children and I negotiated my interest in taking photographs.

They said they were not permitted to have photographs taken, but they said I was more than welcome to take photos of their horses and carts anytime, on their farm, or when they rode by the house.

I said I would not make their faces recognizable. They said that was fine.

We shook hands on it, and I went to photograph their two gorgeous and beautiful draft horses. I really took to these children; they were quite wonderful.

It felt like we were waiting to meet one another. I’ve noticed some of the Amish parents prefer for their children to talk to outsiders if possible. They seem to fade in the background when we are around.

So I need to address the mail I am getting about me and the Amish and their animals.

I got many messages from people who are upset with the Amish and who believe they are cruel to their animals. They assumed I didn’t realize it or know about it, and they pleaded with me to investigate.

Like so many people over the years, they seem to think I am too clueless or blind to see what is under my nose, even when I have written about it a hundred times.

I don’t want to answer each of them, so I’ll state my position here. It’s important to me, and I gather to others as well.  It’s not the first time this subject has come up.

First, I am neither stupid nor naive. I’ve been on many Amish farms as a reporter and photographer and learned a great deal about them during the New York carriage horse controversy since many carriage horses come from Amish Farms.

Despite what the animal rights movement believes, the Amish communities are diverse and varied, with many different customs and beliefs, and practices. They are different than the people who read my blog or me.

During the carriage horse controversy, I came to distrust the animal rights activists. Like the conspiracy theorists who plague us today, they have no interest in truth at times.

Many Amish farmers shoot their horses when they get old, preferring it to large vet bills or slaughterhouses. The Amish don’t go to dentists either, preferring to lose their teeth to dental care and dental bills.

This idea – it is sometimes true – is supposed to brand them as animal abusers who should be investigated and not trusted.

It’s not so simple. If you have ever seen horses killed in a slaughterhouse, then you know a bullet to the head is profoundly more humane.

Religious beliefs vary – there are Old Amish and New Amish and Amish in the middle. There is no central authority like Pope to enforce discipline.

Most Amish do not believe that animals have souls. They believe as many Christian sects and theologists believe, that  God created animals to serve humans. The Bible is quite clear on this, although the Church dances around it: Human beings were granted dominion over the beasts of the field.

If you are inclined to follow the Bible, you view animals in much the same way as the Amish do, and nobody is sending me messages urging me to avoid Christians or Bible followers or fundamentalists and investigate their treatment of animals.

I want to make myself clear. Although some people in the animal rights movement confuse their role with law enforcement, I don’t confuse mine. I am not here to spy on my neighbors or prosecute them.

I am not a police officer or a member of law enforcement. I will not investigate the animal care practices of my neighbors – and hopefully friends. They are entitled to their beliefs, as long as they don’t break the law or harm people.

No one I know has accused them of that. No one has accused my new neighbors of anything.

They have a very different view of animals than I do. Their animals are not pets, they essential tools for living their lives the way they want. As such, they have a vested interest in taking good care of them.

I see clearly that the Amish way of life is a very hard way of life. It requires extreme frugality, discipline, and endless hard work. The idea that their animals serve them makes their worship possible.

To them, animals are not furbabies, substitute children, or members of the family. They are not kept alive by any means at all costs because it makes them feel good. They cannot afford that.

Without their horses, they could not live their harsh lives.

None of these Amish families that have moved to my town in recent weeks have dogs except for the one I saw.

None are running puppy mills. None are mistreating horses. They should not be persecuted as a punishment for those who do. That is a creepy and broad brush to use against blameless people.

I can tell you that the parents of the children I met today have strong values and have raised their children very well. I don’t see them as animal abusers, nor do I see them as love-struck pet owners.

There is always a truth in the middle.

Apart from breaking the law, raising their animals is not my business, and I will not investigate them for the unsubstantiated accusations of strangers online.

If I saw them torture or abuse a horse, I would call the police or the ASPCA. Because I don’t want to be a cop, please don’t assume that I want to be blind. I know what is happening around me. That’s how I survive.

I am aware of how the Amish euthanize their animals.

I am aware that many Humane Society chapters will not adopt their animals out to the Amish because they don’t believe animals have souls.

It is not my business to assure that every living person who lives with animals views them in the same way. We are a diverse country, we are supposed to respect the beliefs of others.

I’m not a cop, animal, or otherwise.

I saw the two horses on our neighbor’s farm today were as healthy as any animals I have seen. They were calm, robust, alert, and very well-groomed.

In recent times, elements of the animal rights movement have become a kind of unofficial militia, investigating, sometimes harassing, and attacking people who view animals differently than they do.

Frequently, they have been found to lie.

They have cruelly harassed and persecuted carriage horse drivers, pony ride operators, circus operators, private citizens in their homes.

I am not like the Amish; they are not like me.

That does not give me any reason to shun them, criticize them, or certainly, to investigate them. While on my neighbor’s farm today, I met a rescue dog the family had saved. I think he had three legs.