The crocheting woman looks up at me. “I was in Holmes County last summer for my grossmuder’s funeral. It’s beautiful, and the Amish are so friendly.”

“Lots of Englischer tourists, though,” the red-haired woman puts in. “They come right up to you and start taking pictures!”

“Gawking at the Amish as if they’ve never seen a plain person before,” another asserts, and chuckles ensue.

It’s harmless small talk, but the nerves at the back of my neck tingle with unease and I remind myself the Amish world can be a small one. While most adults don’t use phones, they write letters. If one of them happens to mention me by name, I could have some explaining to do.…

“How did you like the preaching service?” a thirtysomething woman asks, looking at me from beneath impossibly long lashes.

The group falls silent and I realize this is the most important question I’ll be asked today. I wait a beat, letting the anticipation build. “It was without blemish,” I say. “Bishop Schrock observes the true ordinances of Christ.”

Heads nod, but not all of them, and I’m intrigued. “My church district in Ohio was…” I pause as if seeking the perfect word. “—fallen. All the Amish were mixed in with the rest of the world. Some of our young people were confused. You know, drinking and smoking with their English friends.”

“Here, we are separate,” the red-haired woman tells me.

“Schrock protects us from the blind and perverted,” says another.

Again, it doesn’t elude me that not all the heads nod in concurrence, and I realize not everyone agrees with that assessment.

I spend twenty minutes with the women before excusing myself under the guise of needing a restroom break. I’m told there are two outhouses behind the barn, one for women and one for the men. “Just go through the barn door and to the left,” Mary tells me. “You can’t miss them.”

After being inside for over three hours with so many people and having to be “on” the entire time, I feel as if I can breathe the instant I step outside. The wind has kicked up and smells of woodsmoke and snow. Clouds have gobbled up the sunshine from earlier. I shiver as I make my way around the side of the barn toward the rear.

To my right a dozen or so buggies are parked in a neat row. The two young hostlers stand nearby, watching me. I wave, but they turn away without returning the gesture.

I reach the back of the barn and take the stone steps to a path of trampled snow that wends through the trees. Ten yards away, two white clapboard buildings stand side by side. The one to my right is marked FRAW, so when the path splits, I go right. The outhouse is exactly that, but more closely resembles the kind you might find in a park. After making use of the facilities, I walk to the rear of the building to see what’s there.