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Today is Christmas. I have been thinking about the old hymn written in 1580 by William Chatterton Dix, “What child is this?”. I remember entering a remote village, high on the Sierra Plains, for a site investigation for Agua Viva. Maybe, a city much like Bethlehem. A small young boy, perhaps five years old, ran up to me, a perfect stranger, a gringo no less, and grabbed my leg. He would not let go. I could feel his ribs through his shirt. I could feel his distended tummy against my thigh; surely suffering from untreated round worms. In his face, covered with chaffing, he held the perfect smile. What child is this? Could it be Jesus? Surely, this was the very face of Jesus. Perfect in every way yet born in a manger. Smiling on all humanity, often suffering, without any of the luxuries of life. A Christmas tree? Probably not. A nice house? Well, he lives in a sod house with a thatch roof and no electricity. But, smiling none-the-less. What child is this? He is our brother and our sister. He shares this world with you and I.