Soon after we met, Moise and his wife Barbara came over so the four of us could meet and get to know each other.

Moise had a request for me, and before he made it, I could feel him sizing me up and taking my measure. What he was about to ask me was important; he was taking great care with it.

After an hour or two, he came out with it. Would I be willing to a neighborhood “telephone” for him; that is, if someone died in his family or there was some other emergency, could he give the people in his community my cell phone number.

Could they call me, and could I handle it if it was about death or late at night? Could I be sure to rush over and tell him so that he might have time to make travel arrangements? Could he be certain I would be strong and determined enough to come barging into his house with a detailed account of the all?

Names, details, phone numbers, addresses, times. Would I be a person who would not wait a day to pass along the news but get to him quickly, with the details in writing?

The Amish lead insular lives; they even speak their own language when alone, a German kind. Yet, they need neighbors and outsiders to fill in when needs arrive that they can’t meet – driving, making phone calls, or reservations on a computer or cell phone for their communities to work.

I feel close to the Millers, but I very much understand the boundaries of this. I will never be inside that community any more than I will be fully accepted in my other community. Or my rural town. I am a born outsider; I am good at being an observant outsider.

In this curious sense, we were made for each other.

It’s what I do best; I don’t want to get too close either.

I was startled by the grilling, although it was gentle if thorough. Usually, when people ask a favor, they don’t push it too hard.

Moise made it clear that he needed someone he could trust and depend on. Better for me to say no than to leave him unable to get to a family member’s funeral 1,000 miles away.

This was important to him, and he was straight with me about what he was asking. He emphasized that I should feel free to say no if I was in any way uncomfortable with taking on this responsibility.

I said yes; I told him about my reporting days, my need to write things down quickly and accurately, my familiarity with death and crisis.

I wasn’t exactly auditioning for the role, but I did want to accept it. I was pleased to be chosen by him; he is not a person who takes anything lightly.

This was a fascinating responsibility,  so different from most of my life, and I was happy to do it.

I pictured mad midnight dashes up the hill in the moonlight, a kind of modern-day Paul Revere, and then more mad dashes to airports and bus stations. Some adventure coming to this quiet little down, not so quiet anymore.

And yes, I wanted to get closer to these people to understand them and write about them – I had their full permission to do that.

So we agreed I would be the emergency phone number, and then I forgot about it.

Tonight, my phone vibrated around 5:00 p.m. just as we were getting ready to go out for dinner. Siri announced a caller I didn’t know, so I didn’t pick up.

I didn’t recognize the number, so I sent the call to voicemail. The voice mail ping came up right away.

I listened to the call. I realized it was my first emergency Amish call. And I almost blew it.

It was not about death, but an emergency that required my getting a message to Moise and then back to the caller, a former English neighbor of his in his previous home.

The caller was anxious and excited, and I had trouble figuring out what she was saying.  I went to my study and pulled out a piece of plain white paper, mindful of Moise’s request for the messages to be clear and accurate – and in writing.

I asked her to speak slowly and clearly, and she did, and I was able to question her specifically and with detail – names, times, addresses, etc.

She wanted to know if a decision she and her husband had made involving some of their property was the right one. Could I please call her back one way or the other?

I thanked her, got into the car, and drove up the hill and right next to the temporary farmhouse.

Almost as if by a secret signal, Moise appeared out of nowhere next to my car, accompanied by Barbara and one of their older daughters.

They formed a close half-circle around me as I sat in the driver’s seat, engine turned off. Barbara took the paper and handed it to her husband and then a daughter. It felt as if I were talking to the decision-makers in the family.

Maria sat in the front seat on the right seat – we were going straight to dinner – and she said nothing during the conversation, and no one said anything to her.

I looked around and was aware that every child on the farm – all busy at their chores – had paused to look at me. I drive up there a half dozen times a week and park in the same place. But this time – perhaps it was the paper I was holding –  every eye in the family was locked onto me.

Moise read each word caught misspellings in two different names, but he understood the message. He studied it carefully, repeated it, went over it, read it aloud.

Finally, all three nodded; they all understood the message, and what the woman, a friend, had suggested was the right thing, and it was okay with them.

All the children seemed to get the signal and went back to their work. The family is very much connected one to the other.

“Well, I guess I got to get back to the field now,” Moise said, walking away. He did tell me he would be plowing in the morning if I wished to come by and take some photos of the horses.

Then he walked away. Barbara nodded, and she and her daughter said goodbye and went back into the house.

I told Barbara after she read the message that I planned to come by with some more coloring books and some colored pencils on Saturday. Were the colored pencils and brooks all right to bring to the children?

She smiled and nodded. “Of course,” she said, “thank you.” I know she will try to pay me for them. I sill say no, no payment for books.

One interesting thing about the Amish – and this makes me very comfortable around them – is that there is no drama, no emotion, wasted words, or awkward moments. We “English” fill the silence with many words, many of them obvious and unnecessary.

We say more than we need to say. The Amish don’t waste words in the way we do.

Life is sometimes a spiritual journey, sometimes business.

The Amish speak plainly and simply as they live plainly and simply. At first, this abruptness was unnerving to me. As I got to know them, I understood it to be a compliment: friends don’t need to talk a lot or emotionalize things.

They had asked me to be what I call their “Ring Man,” and I agreed, and I got a message for them and delivered it accurately and promptly. It was a good dry run for a death or a serious tragedy. I know what is expected of me.

There was nothing more to say or do. Moise insists on paying for almost everything I do for the family, but he did not offer to pay me for taking the call and bringing the message.

I understand that. This is different.

This was not about work for hire. It was about being a neighbor and a friend, part of the ecosystem that makes an Amish family on Amish farm work.

I didn’t need thanks, and I don’t care for drama and am often uncomfortable when shown a lot of emotion. I am really awful at small talk, it makes me claustrophobic.

I prefer being direct when I can, but I know many people misinterpret that as rude or arrogant.

The friendship and the relationship works well for both of us.

We are close but without a need to get closer. I rode down the hill, called the caller back, and told her that what she and her husband had decided to do was fine with Moise and Barbara.

I felt good. I took it seriously and did it right.

She thanked me and hung up.