“Katie.” Jacob nods at me as he takes the steps from the porch. “Wie geth’s alleweil?” How goes it now?

“This is John Tomasetti,” I blurt to no one in particular.

Next to me, Tomasetti strides forward and extends his hand to my brother. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jacob,” he says easily.

While the Amish excel at letting you know you are an outsider—which is usually done for some redemptive purpose, not cruelty—they can also be kind and welcoming and warm. I’m pleased to see all of those things in my brother’s eyes when he takes Tomasetti’s hand. “It’s good to meet you, too, John Tomasetti.”

“Kate’s told me a lot about you,” Tomasetti says.

William chuckles as he extends his hand. “Es waarken maulvoll gat.” There’s nothing good about that.

A giggle escapes Sarah. “Welcome, John. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I am.”

I make eye contact with Tomasetti. He winks, and some of the tension between my shoulder blades unravels.

Neither woman offers her hand for a shake. Instead they exchange nods when I make the introductions.

When the silence goes on for a beat too long, I turn my attention to my sister. “Can I help with something?”

“Setz der disch.” Set the table. Sarah glances at Tomasetti and motions toward the picnic table. “Sitz dich anna un bleib e weil.” Sit yourself there and stay awhile. “There’s lemonade, and I’m about to bring out some iced tea.”

Tomasetti strolls to the table and looks appreciatively at the banquet spread out before him. “You sure you trust me with all this food?”

Jacob chortles.

“There’s more than enough for everyone,” Irene says.

William pats his belly. “Even me?”

A gust of wind snaps the tablecloths, and Jacob glances toward the western horizon. “If we’re going to beat the storm, we’d best eat soon.”

Irene shivers at the sight of the lightning and dark clouds. “Wann der Hund dich off der buckle legt, gebt’s rene.” When the dog lies on his back, there will be rain.

While Tomasetti and the Amish men pour lemonade and talk about the storms forecast for later, I follow the women into the kitchen. I’d been nervous about accepting today’s invitation from my brother because I didn’t know what to expect. I had no idea how they would respond to me and Tomasetti or the fact that we’re living together with no plans to get married. To my relief, no one has mentioned any of those things, and another knot of tension loosens.

The kitchen is hot despite the breeze whipping in through the window above the sink. Sarah and I spend a few minutes gathering paper plates, plastic utensils, and sampling the potato salad, while Irene pulls a dozen or so steaming ears of corn from the Dutch oven atop the stove and stacks them on a platter. We make small talk, and I’m taken aback at how quickly the rhythm of Amish life returns to me. I ask about my niece and nephews, and I learn the kids walked to the pasture to show my little niece, who’s just over a year old now, the pond, and I can’t help but remember when that same pond was a fixture in my own life. I’d learned to swim in that pond, never minding the mud or the moss or the smell of fish that always seemed to permeate the water. Back then, I was an Olympian swimmer; I had no concept of swimming pools or chlorine or diving boards. I’d been content to swim in water the color of tea, sun myself on the dilapidated dock, treat myself to mud baths, and dream about all the things I was going to do with my life.