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Today I saw a photo of an Iraqi man wrapping up his dead son. And it made me weak for a moment. Sadly, it’s nothing new to see a dead body on news sites, a tragically too common sight. This morning I lingered too long and witnessed the slightly curled hand of the son. Although an adult, he seemed so vulnerable and as his father wraps him, you see that one never lose tenderness for one’s children. And in that curled hand, I saw the man’s humanity. Son. Brother. Husband? Father?

I don’t consider myself overly sensitive. In fact, my coworkers would adamantly disagree with any allusion to my having ANY sensitivity, for my sense of humor can be a little rough and scathing. Sensitive. What a loaded word! To say someone is sensitive is to declare them delicate and incapable of bearing up to the world’s weight. But shouldn’t we all be sensitive to others? Maybe the word has inherent self-absorption?

Whoa! Revelation just struck! As a teenager, we’re very sensitive about how the world treats us, when we’re older we’re more sensitive about how we treat the world and its inhabitants.

A few years ago I was working on an annual report for a very large UNICEF-type charity. This organization uses upbeat smiling images of children but their library was an endless barrage of crying, neglected and abandoned children. I nearly cried going through page after page. Clearly, having a child of my own has made me realize that everyone of the world’s children is as sweet and special as Ruby, but by trick of birth and location they end up in heart-wrenching situations whether by war or famine or politics. I guess I've gotten a little sensitive.

Now that the holidays are coming up, I think I’m going to make a point of sponsoring a child. Maybe my $28 a month and correspondence can help make at least one child feel that someone out there in the great big world, cares for them. I think it’s the very least I can do.