“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the waitress says. “Are you visiting?”

My gaze slides away from the cook and I introduce myself. “I just moved here from Holmes County.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mary Gingerich.”

“You’re the first Amish I’ve spoken to since I’ve been in Roaring Springs.”

“We’ll have to remedy that, now, won’t we?” She scans the customers, looking for coffee cups that need filling. “What brings you to New York?”

“My husband passed a few months ago.” I add a grave note to my voice. “We’d become discontent with our church district. The Deiner had become high,” I tell her, meaning the district leadership had developed a loose interpretation of the Ordnung. “Especially the Vellicherdiener.” The bishop. “After John passed, I realized I wanted to go back to the older traditions. A lower church.” I shrug. “We’d heard about Bishop Schrock and talked about moving, but then he got sick.… I decided to make the move on my own.”

“All alone?”

I nod.

“That’s a very brave thing to do.”

“God was with me the whole way.”

She nods, like-minded and understanding. “You know of Bishop Schrock, then?”

“A little. Things I’ve heard.”

“Well, he believes in das alt Gebrauch.” The old ways. “He believes in Regel und Ordnung, too.” Rules and order. She lowers her voice. “Bishop Schrock still uses Meidung.”

It’s the Amish term for “shunning” or “social avoidance.” Contrary to popular belief, the bann isn’t a form of punishment. Most often, it’s used to induce a person to confess their sins and apologize to the church, at which point they’re usually reinstated.

“It’s brought back a lot of backsliders who might’ve otherwise been lost,” I say.

She shakes her head. “If Bishop Schrock puts you under the bann, it’s for life.”

A man wearing insulated coveralls and a John Deere cap enters. Mary glances toward the door and goes back into waitress mode, addressing me quickly. “Witt du wennich eppes zu ess?” Would you like something to eat?

“Coffee and the breakfast special,” I tell her.

“Coming right up.”

By the time I’ve finished eating, I know a lot more about the Amish community in and around Roaring Springs than when I walked in. I know that worship is on Sunday and it’s always held in Eli Schrock’s barn. I know that when Mary Gingerich speaks of Schrock, it’s in a hushed tone and with reverence.

I strike up another conversation while she clears my dishes. “I’m looking for work,” I tell her. “Is The Dutch Kitchen hiring?”

“Things are slow,” she replies. “Work’s hard to come by around here. Do you sew?”

“Yes.”

“You might try The Calico Country Store down the street.”

“Thanks, I will.” Leaving a five-dollar bill on the counter, I slide from the stool and heft the bag onto my shoulder.

I start for the door, but she calls out my name. “Do you have a way to get to worship tomorrow?”

I stop and turn. “I was going to walk.”