I realized a couple of weeks ago that every time Moise drives past the farmhouse on his horse and cart, he shouts out, “Hey Johny-Boy, “whether he sees me or not, or whether I can hear him or not.

And every time I pass his carriage while driving on the road home to both of us, I hold up my hand with two fingers sticking up. This means, “Hello, Moise; I hope you are having a good day.”

We talk all the time, just not in the ways I’m used to. Moise is teaching me a new kind of language, a new way to be a friend.

Two or three times a week, I’ll come across Moise moving his two giant draft horses around, digging a ditch, turning soil, hauling concrete sacks, cleaning brush out of the works, digging up huge rocks, installing windows in the barn, scouting new farms for other church members, visiting relatives and friends.

Moise always stops working when he sees me and comes over and explains what he is doing. Then, without a word, he goes back to work. But as always, he lets me know that he is aware that I am there and appreciates it.

This afternoon, after I was sitting on my front porch, having a cold drink, taking a rest from building a stand to hold the nine vegetable baskets, I’m giving the Millers as a surprise present. (I’ve been plotting the purchase and assembly of this stand for more than a month now. More later.) Maria was helping me put it together.

“Hey Johnny Boy, welcome home,” he practically sang, perhaps trusting God to get the message to me.

I took a minute to check my e-mail, and I heard a clip-clop of hooves. I held up my camera; it’s been a while since I caught a picture of the Amish carriages trotting past my house.

When Heard Moses call out my name, I was almost completely obscured by the two young maple trees, both thick and getting taller.

Moise couldn’t have seen me or know that I was there; he does know where my office is; he is just saying hello. And I’m sure he saw my car in the driveway.

My friendship with Moise, my Amish neighbor, is different from any other friendship I’ve had in my life. He and I are still working through it.

I don’t see Moise every day, or even two or three times a week. During the week, Moise works, and he works hard planting, plowing, sawing, hammering, digging, planting, building, hammering, helping relatives and friends build sheds, barns, and houses, dig foundations, install water systems, shop and plan.

When he has a complicated trip to take, he comes over and asks me if I can drive him. He always offers to pay me. I never do let him.

His is work that is never done, my work is hard and intense, but I stop at night and rest and read and watch movies and read and talk to Maria or call my friends.

Moise stops once every time I visit and comes over to explain his work and how he is doing it. At least once, he asks me how my past week was ad what I plan for the coming week.

I thought that this is why our friendship feels so secure. We don’t do any of the things that break friendships up in our world.

At some point, Moise and I decided to trust one another. We never interfere in each other’s business, tell each other what to do, violate one another’s boundaries, complain to each other, yak on the phone, talk politics, drink beer, and watch football games, tire of each other’s company.

Our friendship is a feeling, an idea. The idea is two men who are very different find one another fascinating, enjoy the very little time we have, and when possible, make sure each of us knows that the other cares. We never want more than we have; we always appreciate what we have.

We don’t hug, touch or shake hands. He never draws me into his crises or drama, I never draw him into mine.

Our friendship is just there, not a contract or obligation but an emotion, something we each value. He trusts me to help when I can. I trust him to let me help him.

They are very wary of the outside world. Yet they need us as well.

Amish friendships with one another are different. They see each other frequently; they work hard to get together; they laugh and joke together; they worship together, help one another when asked and share a life dedicated to family and church and the rigorous worship of Jesus Christ.

Yet, at the core are things that bind us together, that are familiar and comforting. Truth is important to both of us, so is independence. We both subscribe to a code of honor that seems outdated.

We seem to see through to the core of each other without speaking about it.

We accept each other completely, and something is liberating about that.

Early in our friendship, a fellow church member asked Moise why he thought I was willing to help his family. “I get the feeling Johnny likes to do good things for people. So he should.”

That means, his friend to me, that he likes you and trusts you.

So simple, so perceptive. People often tell me they don’t understand me. Moise understood me in a few hours. He is a person who likes to do good – with his knowledge, his skill, his faith.

He is always doing good things for people. He very much needs to do that. He has become interested in my work with Bishop Maginn High School.

He asks me about it almost every time we meet.

But I will never ask him to help me with that, and he will never offer.

He does not cross the boundaries of his world and mine. Neither do I.

We work within our own separate worlds.

I would never resent him for what he doesn’t do or isn’t; I celebrate him for what he does do and is.

He wants me to know that my presence matters to him; he gets it.

Maria says she believes are much alike. “You are both very direct,” she said, “very out there. No games.” I am proud of that.

At first, we pried and poked, trying to understand each other. We got as far as we need to go, as far as we can go. As far as we need to go.

I think another thing that nourishes our friendship is that we will never get to know everything about one another, or even very much about one another.

I sometimes think of our friendship as a sculpture, cast in stone but lasting for good. Every time I see it, it looks beautiful and feels good and can be pretty much counted on to look the same.

When Moise rides by and calls out, “Hey Johnny boy,” he is not really speaking to me. He calls out to the universe; he speaks to the very idea of human connection, which is so much bigger than either of us.