At least once every week or so, I ask Moise if he is comfortable with the photos I take or the stories I write. Sometimes, he sees both on my computer; if not, I print them out and bring them to him to talk directly.

I ask if anything makes him uncomfortable, although lately, I don’t even do that.

We don’t discuss the pieces or photos; he looks at them and moves on, puffing his pipe.  He never says he likes them or not. I will never know what he is actually thinking, but I can see he is not disturbed by then.

So far, there has been only one concern in all these months, which makes me proud, and that was this morning: he told me that: some of the out-of-town Amish workers were upset that I took photos (even from a distance) while they were raising a temporary house for Moise’s daughter Katie Ann.

Moise said it upset some people, and I said I would not do it again. He nodded and said he wanted me to come to his own house and barn raising, starting next week.

That was the discussion of the first time my photos bothered anyone. I said I was still learning how to do this and appreciated his honesty.

In a sense, this discussion about pictures is deeper than it might seem. It speaks to the promise and complexity of my friendship with Moise, a 50-year-old elder in the Old Amish church.

Our friendship is something that seems historically and realistically impossible.

Left to his own devices, I doubt Moise, a conservative elder in the Old Amish sect,  would ever even think about some crazy old heretic wandering around his farm taking pictures.

Left to my own devices, I wouldn’t even consider dealing with anyone who put restrictions on my photography, which has become an integral part of my writing and soul.

I can’t imagine our being friends; I can’t imagine our not being friends. This is new territory.

To keep our friendship, we have had to learn to speak openly and honestly with each other and come to a satisfactory middle ground.

I approached him a few weeks ago about installing brighter illumination in the buggies, and he listened to me. I know he is thinking about it and talking to others about it. I told him black illumination tape was on the way from Canada.

He nodded and took a puff on his pipe.

That was our first test of friendship.

I get a lot out of this friendship: a friend, a wood-stacker and tree saver, and soil explainer and crop wizard, some wonderful children,   and a fascinating subject to write about.

He gets a friend, one who can drive him in emergencies, search online for the things he needs, run to the market, make copies on a copying machine, take emergency phone calls from faraway relatives, and rush him to the bus or train station if someone dies.

Our families are drawing closer all the time; I am very connected to his children, so is Maria. Much love and connection are passing between us.

When I pull into the driveway, his youngest granddaughter – she is three – comes up to the car, takes my hand, and walks me into their kitchen. One or more children shouts “grandpa,” a name they awarded me after I got a straw hat.

Moise and I are similar in many ways.

We are stubborn, driven, loyal; we speak directly and honestly, we love to work, we love our families.

The photo issues make us both uneasy, I suspect, but not for long. We both know we will work it out. I have a rich history in my life of quarreling with people who tell me what to do, but that will not happen with Moise.

I feel we are partners on this, both on the same side; we will protect our friendship from cynics and critics who are around.

He won’t take my photos away; I won’t reject his beliefs.

People believe that all Amish are alike and live by the same rules, but that is not true. There are at least twenty different Amish sects, and they all have different rules about photographs, buggy lights, and technology.

And every person in every sect is different, an individual.

Amish Bishops and families often give limited permission to be photographed; it’s important to be open and say what you are trying to do and give them the chance to say no.

Under those circumstances, they had always said yes to me, even before  I met the Miller family.

Several sects in Western Ohio have cameras now and are taking their own photographs.

In Lancaster, Pa., the Amish are a major tourist industry all by themselves; banning photographs would upend much of their great commercial success. They pose happily.

Moise and I are good friends; we talk easily and directly with one another. I tell him my primary rule is to do nothing that makes him uncomfortable, and my wish is that he is never uncomfortable telling me if I do something that bothers him or questions his values.

“Oh, I will,” he pledges quietly. And he is a person of his word, something I respect a great deal.

Photography is an art, but it can be tricky, and I am aggressive. I was a reporter, and almost nobody wants to talk to a reporter or want them around. A good reporter ignores that.

My editors told me I was a fierce reporter; I always came back with the story and the picture.

I would never do that to Moise or his family. So I am getting softer.

The Bible’s Ten Commandments inspired the Amish discomfort with personal photographs: “Thou shall not make unto thee any graven image or any likeness of any thing ..”

Under the law, I can take a photo of anything I want from the road, but I don’t want to do it that way. My rule is if Moise or Barbara or anyone in the family objects,  I swallow, count to three, don’t take a photo.

In 1865, an Ordnung (ruling) issued in Ohio advised members not to “carry hidden photographs made into the likeness of men or hang them on the walls in the house to be seen.” Amish theology cautions that photographs encourage pride and adulation, the precise opposite of self-denial and equality.

In my own dealings with several Amish families here, I find more flexibility than I expected.

I don’t focus on their faces, which seems acceptable to them, and I am welcome to take pictures of their buildings, animals, crops, improvements, and even them from a respectable distance.

There are gray areas and gray moments, but Moise and I talk about them openly and without anger or argument. My rule is straightforward. I don’t take a photo of anything without approval, and I show it before publication.

In some ways, we are both uneasy about the subject, and for different reasons. It means we have to listen to one another rather than argue; this is healthy for me and a lesson about life.

Moise understands; he says that taking photos is a part of my soul, as plowing and working with the land is a part of his soul.

He knows what it is like to feel my passion; I know what it is like for him. Given this respect, it is almost impossible to come into conflict or not to listen.

The interesting thing for me is that I will never really understand Moise and how he thinks, and he will never really understand me. We don’t even try. And it doesn’t really matter.

We get along and help each other when asked and talk when we meet. But never about us.

Moise likes to show me what he is doing, I’ve told him he can always disinvite me or ask that I stay away if I make anyone uneasy, but he has invited me to every significant evolution of the farm.

Life is filled with ironies. I make so many people who are much like me uneasy, but Moise, who is nothing like me, is quite at ease with me. I don’t scare him in any way, and his daughters call me “grandpa!”

Today he showed me the amazing irrigation system he built by himself on the farm, which I’ll write about later. I was awestruck.

He is like a little kid when he shows me something; he is especially proud and patient to explain it to someone who knows nothing about it.

This is one of the many reasons I value friendship with this man and his family. This friendship makes me a better person.

My understanding of the family’s rules about picture-taking is this:

I try not to show faces in any way that would make them recognizable. If anyone on the family objects, of course, I stop. Some of the children move out of range when I point to a camera; I always announce what I am doing and give anyone the chance to get out of the picture.

Shots are taken from the rear or so far back on the property that the face can’t clearly be seen. Generally, Moise says, he believes it its the moral duty of the photographer to respect the wishes of the Amish subject. In other words, it’s on me, not them.

This is a wise policy for me; when I was a reporter and occasional news photographer, I did not always respect the subjects’ wishes, many of whom were criminals. When I’m responsible for my decisions, I want very much to take the high road.

In our turbulent world, moral ethics have become more and more important to me.

If the children are tiny, I don’t take any photos. If they are a quarter-mile or so away and far too small to be recognized, I might include them in a photo. If I do take such a photo, I show it to  Barbara and Moise first.

A surprise for me is that when I can’t take a photograph, I am forced to pay more attention to detail, making me a better writer. Mystery and wonder are shrouding these people, and the absence of full-face photos leaves people guessing.

Thus, writing becomes more important.

I doubt that either one of us has a clue about where the friendship is going, if anywhere. I told Moise today that one day, my granddaughter could go onto the Internet and see for herself what I wrote about the Amish as well as my own life.

“You,” I said, “will not be among those photos; the only way she can know what you looked like and were like is to read what I wrote. Pretty cool, eh?”