Yesterday I drove past a sad scene on my way home from work—a gray horse on the ground, a woman crouched near him stroking his neck, faithful dog by her side. I turned around and drove back, asked the woman if she was OK, expressed my sincere and teary-voiced sympathy when she confirmed the horse had died.

I’d noticed from the many times I’d passed his pasture he was a bit thin in the way of older horses, despite good grass, and, judging from the obvious health of the other horses, good care. Watching his owner sitting with him, comforting herself by waiting with him for her husband to arrive with the tractor to bury him, of course it put me in mind of the terrible day I lost Merlin.

That day is never far from my mind.

Merlin was my heart and soul horse, and a part of me died when he did. I don’t know if it was like that for this woman and her white horse. But clearly she’d lost a friend.

If you’re a horse person, you cherish that special bond. There’s nothing quite like working with a 1,000-pound animal and feeling a connection that makes you a team. It’s breathtaking when your horse, your friend, leaves the camaraderie of the herd to visit you at the gate. There’s no healing like that offered by a horse, and no view better than the one of scenery between a horse’s ears.

I’ve driven past this farm for five years now and this is the first time I’ve spoken with or even been near to anyone living there—me standing in the road, her about 20 yards away. And yet I have something in common with her, don’t I? Several things, in fact. Probably more, were we to sit and talk. Maybe she has kids and grandkids. Maybe she’s had some difficult family relationships, and some wonderful family surprises. Possibly she has conflicts at her job that make her work less satisfying than it could be, and perhaps she’s sometimes proud of an accomplishment that made someone else’s day better or easier.

Are you with me still? I’m going to ruin it now by talking about politics. I can tell from the signs in the yard—the banner on the horse barn, even—that we aren’t a match when it comes to politics. We may even have some serious disagreements. I’ve thought some fairly unkind things as I’ve driven by, and made some assumptions that probably aren’t completely off the mark.

Now, though, I’ve shared a grieving moment, however briefly, with at least one person there.

The sun didn’t break through the clouds just then, there were no rainbows, butterflies, musically chirping birds. I’m not going to call her up for coffee or even send a card. But I am going to remember she’s a child of God, as am I, and a person, not a caricature.

What I mean to say: It’s so easy to hate someone. Takes no effort at all. It’s equally easy to sit in judgement of other people, to assume the worst of everything about them. No special skills needed for that.

Horse people know: when you are riding a horse you can’t actually force that horse to your will. Oh, you can add training aids, some of them brutal. You can deprive a horse of its will to live and cow it into obedience. But if you want a partnership with a horse, if you want to get something done, you have to find a way to communicate and cooperate.

It’s true that some horses, like some people, are intractable—vicious, even. But most horse people know that in nearly every case, there’s a reason for the horse’s bad acting.

Not sure, but it seems like there might be a lesson here for me.