Once Schrock makes his exit, the congregation rises. The men replace their hats. The crowd exits the same way they entered, according to age and status. I’m in one of the last groups, so I use the time to introduce myself to several women, taking a few minutes to get myself noticed as “the newcomer” before heading to the food area.

The aromas of cinnamon, yeast bread, and coffee titillate my olfactory nerves as I move closer to the tack room. I’m exchanging pleasantries with a cute twentysomething woman who is expecting her first child when I notice a line of sorts has formed and I’m somewhere in the middle of it. Through the crowd I catch a glimpse of the cause. A quiver of anxiety ripples through me at the sight of Eli Schrock standing in the doorway, greeting everyone as they enter the room.

He takes his time and seems to relish speaking with each and every member of his congregation. I watch him carefully as I move ever closer. He shakes the hands of both men and women. With an elderly woman, he takes her hand into both of his and bows his head slightly as he speaks to her. He holds the most elevated position in the church district, and yet he’s respectful of his female elders. Even from a distance I discern his charisma. He’s engaging and attentive, with a demeanor that oozes benevolence and beckons trust. But there’s power there, too, and the strength to make the tough decisions when needed.

The woman behind me says something. I turn to her and we exchange a pleasantry. Then suddenly it’s my turn. Eli Schrock stands just two feet away. So close I can smell him: a combination of hand soap, alfalfa hay, and coffee. Tilting his head, his eyes find mine, and in that instant the rest of the crowd melts away. Anxiety scratches at the back of my neck as he scrutinizes me. I know it the moment he realizes he’s never met me, and he steps closer.

Bowing my head slightly, I extend my hand. “It was a good preaching service,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Humility is the way of the Lord.” His hand closes over mine. I’m keenly aware of the heat of it. The scuff of calluses against my skin. His eyes are dark gray, nearly black, but a light seems to radiate from within.

“You’re the widow from Ohio,” he says.

The statement takes me aback; I know better than most how quickly word of a newcomer travels among the Amish. Still, I’m surprised he knows who I am. “I’m Kate Miller and I’m happy to be here, Bishop.”

“We welcome you.” He’s still gripping my hand, looking at me with such intensity that I struggle to maintain my poise. “You’ll be living permanently here in Roaring Springs?” he asks.

“Yes.” I’m cognizant of the woman standing behind me, waiting her turn.

Schrock doesn’t seem to notice her. He’s still holding my hand, looking at me intently, unhurried. “You’re planning to join the church?”