It’s been cold – just as it should be the week before Christmas. In the evenings, Fergie and I bundle up in the quilted down of old ladies and amble around Beaufort. The decorations and lights twinkle with hope and promise. I’m a real sucker for holidays as I love a fancy frock and fun party, but the stillness of our evening walks in our quaint village fills me with joy. Not of the manufactured commercial variety – real, levitation of spirit, soul kind of joy.

On Wednesday, a car pulled alongside us and the passenger window lowered in a jerky fashion. It was a Ford sedan of the previous century. The car was clean, and the seat had been repaired in neat straight rows with dark gray duct tape. There was a quilt on the floorboard. The driver’s eyes were cloudy from cataracts, and his beard was snowy white, but he had a spark about him. The fact that his greeting to me began with “hey there young lady” confirms his senior status.

“Do you know what King Solomon says about loving animals?”

“No sir. Not off the top of my head.”

“Do you read the Bible?”

“Not like I should,” I admitted.

“I like Proverbs. I can’t remember if it’s 12:10 or 10:12, but one of those verses is my favorite. I think it’s 12:10. ‘The righteous care for the needs of their animals’ – I believe is how it goes. I thought of that verse when I saw you walking your little dog there.”

“Yes sir, she sure is a good dog. She’ll be fifteen in May.”

“I just lost my dog,” he says, his cloudy eyes now rainy with tears. “Rocky was fifteen and I miss him bad. I miss him all the time.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Well, young lady, I’ll see him again someday or it won’t be heaven. That’s what I believe, anyhow.”

Me too.

He turned into the bank parking lot. His muffler was hanging low, the left bumper dented and scraped, the Ford sedan of the righteous.

All the Bible talk got me to thinking about my mama. I long for her at Christmas. When I crossed over the street and headed west along the waterfront, the sky was lowering the shade on daylight, the clouds parting in spaces, creating windowpanes. A grief counselor once told me that God makes a way for those who have passed on to look down and see the good on earth. Sort of like streaming Ted Lasso, I guess, the best version of life on earth on display for afterlife viewing. I was still in the anger phase when the therapist offered this nugget, my pain too white hot to be touched by recovery tips. But on this day, after a drive by with King Solomon, I am open to heaven’s window, and I whisper hello to Mama and a dog named Rocky.

Back at home, I pulled my Bible from my cedar chest. My parents gave both to me when I graduated high school. Inside the white leather cover is inscribed, “Emily Jean, To a sweet girl who has been a great joy to me. Love, Mom” in the distinct curly cursive of a woman born in 1932.”

To the common Bible reader, I’m guessing these verses are ordinary in a proverbial way, but it’s been a long time since I read the good book on a regular basis. Mr. Ford was right, 12:10 is about the righteous and animals. For good measure, I flipped over to 10:12. Two Bible verses in one year doesn’t feel like an overdose.

“Hatred stirreth up strifes, but love covereth all sins.”

In a sidewalk conversation, an old man with a white beard reminded me of three things I want to remember this December.

It’s a privilege to have and care for an animal, especially an old one.

The hate train only stops at one station.

Love is the cover crop of the universe.

All this was delivered to me at dusk by an old man with a white beard, still believing. I just had to be quiet enough to hear the noiseless trumpeting of resounding peace.