I’ve written frequently and intensely about the Amish, so I am not surprised that several people have e-mailed me to ask if the Amish have responded to my foot surgery and recovery in any meaningful way.

“I’m sure Moise has stopped by offer his help,” wrote one reader who has followed the blog closely. “Maybe the Amish will bring you and Maria some dinner this week,” suggested another.

These are exciting questions, and the answers to both are the same: no and no.

This speaks to the reality of and boundaries of friendship between outsiders like me (“English,” as the Amish call us) and this remarkable community.

I’ll try my best to explain, as I have become both a scholar and witness of Amish life and I love trying to understand and explain them, as challenging as it can be.

The truth is, most of the English know nothing more about the Amish than how oddly they dress and how cool it is to see horse buggies trotting around. People also love their pies and cookies.

The idea of this exotic,  plain, devout community is more powerful than most of what the English offer the world these days.

From my research, I understood that when Amish people start new settlements, as they have done here, most residents welcome them.

They are exotic, law-abiding, and often revive abandoned farmland. They ride around in iconic buggies. They wear odd hats and bonnets.

Usually, flashpoints occur after a year or so.

Residents complain that the buggies are unsafe and poorly lit; others (bikers and joggers, and walkers)  find the horse manure on local roads disturbing.

People see the Amish as friendly but quickly discover that they can also be aloof. They grow and make most of what they need and reject local schools for their children.

People expect more from them than they can give. I accept what they can give. They accept what I can give.

They are religious but build no churches or cathedrals, hire no clergy and rotate services among community members. It becomes clear that they are different from us and never defend or explain themselves. Nor will they promote conflict and argument.

The Amish spend years patiently working out issues until some solution is found.

Some of their new neighbors discover that the stand-offishness of the Amish is a primary reason for their survival, not a personal rejection. Others resent it. More than anything, the Amish fear the ways of the English affecting their children and corroding their communities.

Initially, people bring gifts to welcome Amish families. Few of the gifts are ever seen again. Their church preaches simplicity and frugality; they only acquire what they need and happily suffer for what they don’t have.

They hang almost nothing on their walls.

They have a Berlin Wall around their interior lives. The Amish are experienced at moving and insulating themselves from the world beyond.

New settlements quickly find friendly neighbors (people like me) who can drive them, make telephone calls, and shop for them.

Often these people (like me) become friends, but it is a friendship with limits that must be understood and respected if the relationship is to survive.

More often, these relationships do not deepen.

In my community,  ignoring people who are sick and in need is a sacrilege. In the Amish world, turning away from fellow church members is the sacrilege; getting a family entangled in the troubles of English families is also discouraged, if not forbidden.

People often talk of being tolerant of those who are different. But it doesn’t happen very often.

The Amish are perhaps the oldest surviving small community in Western Civilization, if not the world. They are 500 years old and doubling in population every 20 years. They are well worth understanding.

The answer to my readers’ questions is simple: The Amish have not responded to my illness at all or in any way. No cards, no food, no visits, no pies are cookies, no stops of any kind.

This would be upsetting, surprising,  cold, even heartless in the English culture.

Almost all of my friends have messaged me, called me, texted me, or asked if they can help after my operation  – they offer to bring food, clean up, run errands, relieve Maria so she can work.

Friends and family check in at times like these; it’s almost sacrilegious not to.

People all over the country – including some places overseas –  have messaged me, offering to help if I need anything.

My Amish friends and neighbors have been silent, as I knew they would be and must be.

But my Amish friends are not cold or heartless. I value my friendship with them greatly, as is apparent. I’ve worked hard to earn their trust.

I’ve done my homework and read about these people, talked to them observed them. I wanted the friendship and worked hard for it. I love it as a writer and also as a human being. The family is very special to me.

But to be friends with the Amish is very different from being friends with the English or with the culture outside.

I realized right away that if I wished to be friends with Moise and his family – and we are friends – there are several things I need to understand and accept. Firm boundaries make friendship healthy to me.

With the Amish, I know what to expect and what never to expect.

Most of the friendships I’ve lost in my life have ended because of boundary issues.

The most crucial boundary with the Amish is accepting this: while I am friends with the Millers, I understand that I am their most significant and feared enemy and the greatest danger to their culture.

They believe an important reason for their survival is that they keep outsider cultures and people like me and our ways of life at a distance.

I used to joke that you can always get into an Amish kitchen, but rarely, if ever, the house. I recently made it into their home, and I appreciated it as the compliment it was.

Last week, I told Barbara, Moise, and the girls that I was having surgery for a while and would be unavailable to drive them or get ice or ice cream or pizza or buy things they needed online.

On the day before my surgery, I dropped off a new vegetable display for the shed (my gift, in exchange for some necklaces), new boots for Moise (my contribution), and flowers for Barbara.

Moise joked that I could stop by if I wished, and he would take care of my spur (I can’t say for sure that he was kidding.) Barbara said she hoped my surgery went well. One of the girls asked me when I would be back.

Nobody mentioned the new display, or the boots, or the ice cream and pizza. Nobody mentioned the surgery.

It isn’t that the Amish are not generous or caring. It isn’t that they don’t care for me. They rush to help and care for each other all the time; helping one another is a central tenet of the Amish faith.

They also believe one’s fate and life are in God’s hands, not theirs. They quite sincerely leave foot surgeries to him.

But another and equally powerful Amish teaching is caution about mixing too much with outsiders or getting their children too close to outsider cultures like mine. I do most of the things the Amish choose not to do or are forbidden to go.

The Millers love me, but they also fear me. I am, in many ways, the embodiment of evil as well as love.

The Amish rarely go to doctors or agree to non-emergency surgeries, and when they do need intensive care, they mostly go to Mexico. The church pays all the costs.

They don’t drive or use computers, join Facebook or Twitter, shop online, make telephone calls, purchase clothes, or heat their houses with oil heaters or electric systems.

They don’t take photographs or permit close-up pictures of their faces.

They can’t borrow money, fall into debt, hire lawyers, or file lawsuits.

They won’t sign up to any power grid or use electric devices. They won’t be vaccinated for anything.

They won’t use cell phones for any reason. They won’t take their dogs to vets.

They don’t take pictures or purchase their food – they grow it.

The Amish are different from us. They are really different.

Because I am close to the family, I am a likely source of infection. Because we like, even love, one another, I am all the more dangerous.

The Amish are cautious about what they wish to know about us, and what we wish to know about them.

They refuse to follow the weather or watch any news. If they want to know about what is happening outside, they ask me. They’ve asked me twice.

If they asked me about the surgery, I would have to bring in the whole idea of American notions of doctoring or health care, and the girls knew better than even to ask me any of the details of it.

To come over and bring food or help in the house or get too involved in my operation would be a violation of their quite clear boundaries.

By being as comfortable as we are with one another, the family has already pushed the boundaries of their conservative community.

I know some of the most devout elders have raised some concerns about me and my cameras.

I appreciate Moise’s loyalty and commitment to our friendship.

If I expected him to follow the social manners and etiquette of the English world, I would be kissing this precious friendship goodbye. I cannot imagine Moise coming to the farmhouse with dinner for Maria and me.

If I were Amish, he would have come already or sent Barbara and the girls.

I think the measure of a friendship like this is tolerance, respect, and understanding. And I am honoring boundaries.

I’m not going to be bothered because no one in the family has sent me a card, brought me dinner, or asked after my health.

I don’t show the girls Iphone photos anymore. I bring them very few books.

To Barbara and Moise and their children, my foot is in the hands of Jesus and his father, not mine, and suffering is sanctity, not something to pity. Jesus suffered a lot more than me.

Here’s what happens next: In a couple of weeks, I’ll drive up the hill and asked if they need anything. The girls will rush out to the car yelling “Grandpop,” and Moise will mention how comfortable his new books are (or aren’t). Nobody will ever say a word about my foot or the vegetable stand.

We’ll pick up where we left off. God will have decided to heal my foot, and nothing more needs to be said about it.

I like to give things to people, from the Mansion residents to the refugees to the Amish. No strings attached – none. I do these things for me because they make me feel good. In that way, they are selfish.

So nobody – certainly including me – need be surprised that my Amish friend is not riding into the back yard in their buggies with tonight’s dinner.

There will be no get-well cards in the mailbox—no flowers for the dining room table.

Our friendship depends on it. In the end, I respect their decisions and traditions; they come to them honestly and faithfully. I don’t need cards.