Every time I turn around, there’s a charity appeal coming from somewhere. Haiti is a disaster, yes. But even before that, we’ve had charities wringing their hands for the past two years, as the tough economy sends more people seeking aid at the same time that donations are dwindling down.

Part of my day job involves reading hardship letters from people who want help to keep their home. I’d say about 25% of these people are truly in dire straits and the other 75% are opportunists who are gaming the system for a handout. The opportunists don’t give up as easily as the people who really deserve the help, either.

Anyway, reading these letters can get to me. Trying to come up with solutions to impossible problems for people who are so far underwater that there’s no real hope, is an unpleasant job.

And then I get home and hear of charity appeals on the news. I get appeal letters in the mail. I get emails asking me to please send only ten dollars so a child can get medical care.

Food pantries seems on the verge of empty shelves, animal shelters are full, unemployment compensation is running at two and three years for some recipients and running out altogether for others.

Something’s gotta give.

You.

Us.

It’s easy to become desensitized. I’ve had to “tune out” my humanity at my job more times than I can count. I’m a robot who enters data, a voice calling to say “no” to somebody counting on aid that isn’t going to come.

Giving a few bucks here and there to some charities seems like a drop in the ocean, but I’ve never seen a time when so many people, and animals, and causes, needed help at once.

I share what I can and would like to be able to give more, but I know that if I don’t take care of me and mine first, I can’t help anybody else later.

Every little bit truly does help. Enough “drops in the ocean” may eventually turn the tide.

As most of us look forward to some kind of tax refund this season, let’s all remember the extended hand…and put something in it.

Though a word to the wise: Fake charities are on the rise, and you should make sure the organization you’re helping is on the level.

I’d also like to thank the friends who helped me out during dark times several years ago, and who still stand by me today. Just knowing that somebody cares brings an incredible amount of hope and a willingness to endure.

A couple friends asked me how I could be so sympathetic to the drunk driver in the prior blog post. To clarify in brief, lemme just say it was the way the whole lawsuit operated that drove my post. The ease in which someone can be sued, and the way the jury in such a case is given a blank check to write, is a huge life lesson that I felt everyone should know. No matter what side of the courtroom you’re sitting on.

I also recognize alcoholism as a disease, not simply a habit. My stepfather died of it, perhaps indirectly as there were no witnesses, but he died brutally. My mother didn’t get enough to bury him from the insurance company because of his history of alcohol abuse.

I do not condone drunk driving. But I’m also of the opinion that in the court case I witnessed, the guilty party had experienced sufficient punishment, and going after him for two million dollars on top of it, wasn’t justice as much as a lawyer-driven lottery effort.

Have I ever driven drunk? Not flat out drunk, no. But I was somewhat buzzed once, and drove, many years ago, doing a 25 mph crawl from the bar to my apartment. It was probably a mile drive, if that. But does that make it okay? No. Was I too buzzed to drive? I didn’t think so, and I made it home without incident, so I must have been fine, right?

I don’t know. And trying to figure out if you’re over the legal limit or not isn’t a good idea. Odds are you’ll guess wrong; and people within the legal limits have been known to cause accidents. It’s never “ok” to drive under the influence. I’ve lost friends from high school to drunk driving; I’ve lost a family member to alcoholism. I treat booze fairly lighthearted in my blog, but alcoholism is no joke, and drunk driving has no excuses.