The snow was falling gently as Tim walked down the street, hands shoved into his pockets and head hanging low. In his mind, he kept reliving the moments before it had happened, kept second-guessing his actions, wondering what he could have done differently. Would it have changed anything? Could he have stopped it from happening?

They were still unconscious at the hospital. The doctors said they couldn't guess when his team would come to, if they would at all. Ducky and Abby had arrived not long after, Abby being the fretful voice of worry and Ducky the calm voice of reason. Abby had paced the floor, droning on and on about what could possibly be happening at the moment; Ducky had tried to make her sit before she talked herself into a conniption fit.

And Tim? He had just sat there, still and silent, until he couldn't take it anymore. Then, he had shot to his feet and stormed out into the chilly D.C. night, wandering the streets with no idea where he was going.

How could this have happened? These things were never supposed to happen. His teammates weren't supposed to get hurt this way. And on Christmas Eve of all times! What kind of world was this anyway?

He looked up and there saw a small church right across the street. There was nobody outside, but the lights were on inside and they shone through the stained-glass windows, making the building look like a beacon shining in the dark. It had an almost ghostly glow.

Tim's mouth tightened and he felt his cheeks grow red. Tears sprang into his eyes, but refused to fall, as he held them back with all his might.

He was angry. He was angry at everything. He was angry at NCIS for making the team work that weekend. He was angry at the Petty Officer for rigging a bomb to go off inside that warehouse. He was angry at himself for not being in there when the bomb went off. Most of all, he was angry at the way his illusions of what Christmas was supposed to be had come crashing down that very day.

And so Tim, his body trembling with rage, ran across the street, not even paying attention to the car that honked at him irritably. He ascended the few steps and shoved the door open. He bypassed the holy water and bound down the aisle. There wasn't a single other person there, though the candles were still burning, including the four advent candles, surrounded by a wreath. Above the altar hung the customary crucifix; Tim fixed it with an angry glare.

"For as long as I can remember, I've been taught that you answer our prayers," he whispered. "I've been taught that Christmas is a time of love and joy and that Christmas miracles happen all the time. I was the good little boy. I said my prayers, I confessed my sins, I went to mass. I was a good person; at least, I tried to be a good person. Sometimes I slipped up. But what could I have ever done to deserve this? What could they have ever done to deserve it? It's Christmas! These things aren't supposed to happen at Christmas!"

He sunk down into one of the pews, his head falling into his hands. "How am I supposed to have faith after this? How am I supposed to think about you while thinking about the fact that this happened to good people? Why should I have been spared? Huh? Why me?"

Tim looked back up at the crucifix, his eyes filled with scorn. "I wish I'd been in there when the bomb went off; it would have hurt less than this. I…I don't think I can take it if…" He trailed off, uncertain if he should even say it allowed, as though it might make it happen.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting."

His head shot to the side and he suddenly realized that those tears had stubbornly pushed through and were now trickling down. He brought the back of his hand up and brushed them away sheepishly. "Sorry," he said in a hushed apology.

The woman standing there was obviously a nun. She was short—much shorter than him—and Tim guessed that she was around forty-years-old (though it was difficult to tell with the habit covering so much of her hair and face). Tim wasn't sure if she had heard him; if she had, he hoped she hadn't heard the angry things he'd said. He was already starting to feel guilty about that. He hadn't meant them; he was just speaking from a place of anger and frustration.

The nun smiled. "No need to apologize, sir."

"I hope I'm not trespassing. I just saw that the church was open and…and I needed a place to go."

"Not trespassing," she assured him as she began stocking the pews with hymnals. "I think a church should be open all the time, anytime a person needs it. God is always there." She placed the last one down and turned to him. "Do you need food or a bed?"

"What?" Realization dawned on him. "Oh! Oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that I was homeless or anything. I've just had a really rough day. I thought that coming here to vent would make me feel better, but now I just feel worse."

She sat beside him and nodded. "Sometimes that can happen. Sometimes talking about it can make things better."

"I tried talking about it." His eyes went upward to the crucifix.

"Well, with all due respect to the Lord," she said, making the sign of the cross, "sometimes you need to talk to someone who can verbally respond to you."

Tim sighed and leaned back, his hands in his lap. He was silent as he collected his thoughts and tried to make sense of them all. She was patient; she didn't push him. She sat there, waiting for him to open up.

"My team…" He stopped; he collected himself. "We went to investigate a case involving a Naval Petty Officer and some drugs. We had Intel that he and his accomplices were working out of a warehouse in Anacostia. When we got there, they went in. Gibbs, Tony and Ziva. They went in to start checking it out. I was supposed to stay outside and see if I could track our Petty Officer and figure out if there had been any cell phone signals coming from that area. They were only in there for five minutes…and then I felt the ground shake beneath me."

She raised an eyebrow. "An earthquake?"

"No…a bomb. It had been in there, set to go off. Probably to eliminate possible evidence, as well as any unwanted guests." He wiped away a few more stray tears. "My teammates…my friends, they weren't killed, but they were hurt. They were hurt badly enough that they still haven't woken up and the doctors say the odds aren't good and…and I'm here! I'm not hurt! I'm still awake and alive and all I can do is sit here and replay those seconds over and over in my mind."

He stood and leaned forward, his hands clutching the back of the pew in front of him. "I feel so many things. I feel like I should have been in there with them. I feel like I should have been the one hurt, not them. I feel like this shouldn't happen during Christmas. And now I'm just angry…angry at myself…angry at everyone."

"And is it helping?" she asked. "The anger, I mean."

"No. It's just making things worse."

"Maybe it's pointless to be angry, then." The words were simple, but so intuitive at the same time. "As far as I can tell, you happened to be the victim of a terrible occurrence. It makes sense that you might feel some sort of responsibility for what happened, but you did not set up that bomb nor did you do anything to harm anyone. Did you?"

Tim shook his head.

"So why do you wish you had been in there? Why should you have been hurt? How would that have changed anything?"

"I'd be the one lying in that hospital bed instead of them."

"Maybe. Maybe not. No one can know God's plan. Sometimes terrible things happen. Sometimes we cannot articulate why they happened, why those people were the ones hurt. But it's important to trust that God is still watching over us all, even if we sometimes lose that faith."

"But how can I? How can I believe in anything when the people I care about may not live long enough to see tomorrow?"

She laid her hand over his. "That's why it's called 'faith.'"

"Have you ever lost you faith?"

"Lost?" she repeated. "No, not quite. But I've stumbled a few times, questioning things that happened. No matter what, though, I always return to God and take comfort in knowing that he watches over me, even if life doesn't always turn out the way I hope."

"I wish I could have that much faith."

"You can," she assured him, giving his hand a pat. "I've just had lots of practice."

"I hadn't expected Christmas to end up like this."

"You seem to put an awful lot of emphasis on the Christmas season, as though it's invulnerable to anything bad. It's a time of year, just as all the others. It's just a little more cheerful."

She had a good point, Tim had to admit. There was no rule that said bad things couldn't happen at Christmas. People still died, robberies still happened, people still hurt other people. But everyone still talked about Christmas tragedies as though they were somehow worse than tragedies that happened at any other time of year.

"I can tell that you are a good man," she continued. "I have no doubt that you would sacrifice your own life for those of your friends, but you cannot tear yourself apart this way. You do nothing to help them if you lose your strength this way. They need you."

"And if they die?"

"Even the dead need things from the living," she said with a small smile.

At that moment, Tim heard his cell phone ring. He muttered an apology as he wrenched it from the pocket of his jeans. It was Abby.

"Hello?"

"Tim! Tim, they're awake!"

"What?"

"Gibbs and Tony and Ziva! They're all awake! And they're okay!"

"Awake? But the doctors said—"

"The doctors don't even understand it. They said it's like a Christmas miracle or something, but…Tim, you've got to get back here! Now!" Although she was sniffling, Tim could hear the jubilance in her voice.

He ended the call as his eyes slipped closed in relief.

"Good news?"

"Yes…they're going to be okay."

"See? A little faith can go a long way."

"I've got to go," he said. "Thank you…thank you for everything, Sister…"

"Mary Patrick," she finished. "And you're welcome. Just remember: Even in our darkest times, we can get through it if we just believe, Timothy."

As Tim left, he realized that Sister Mary Patrick had called him Timothy. He hadn't told her his name…had he?

He shook his head. Obviously he had. Otherwise, how could she have known it? Anyway, it wasn't important. What was important was the fact that Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva were going to be safe.

As he walked toward the hospital, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God.

Three days later, the team was showing great signs of improvement. There were still wounds that needed to heal and they would all be confined to their hospital beds for at least a few more days, but the doctors had great faith that they would suffer no permanent damage.

That morning Tim had realized that he hadn't returned to the church since leaving it that Christmas Eve. He felt bad for not giving Sister Mary Patrick a proper thank you for her help and understanding, so he decided to slip out that afternoon and stop by. He even stopped in the gift shop to purchase a small bouquet of flowers to give her as a token of his appreciation.

As he recalled, the church had been situated three streets down from the hospital and there had been a small park behind it. When he arrived there, however, he saw the park, but where he'd remembered the church being, there was just a large, empty lot.

Tim frowned. Obviously he had forgotten where the church had been. But where else could it be?

He went into one of the buildings across the street from the empty lot. It was a barber shop and it was almost empty, save for a woman at the desk, and a barber who was working on a customer at the moment. "Can I help you, sir?" asked the woman at the front desk.

"Yeah, I'm looking for a church. I thought it had been right across the street, but I can see I was mistaken. Do you know the nearest one?"

"Not really, but I can look it up, if you'd like."

"Excuse me," the customer cut in, "but did you say you're looking for a church across the street?"

"Yes, sir. At least, that's where I thought it was."

"There used to be a church there, but it burned down seven years ago. One of those Christmas candles toppled over on Christmas Eve and their smoke alarm was faulty. By the time they noticed the fire, it was too late. Luckily, the church didn't have a mass that evening, but as I recall one of the nuns had been in there and died of smoke inhalation. It was pretty tragic."

Burned down? "Oh," Tim said, slightly speechless. "Well, would you happen to know the other closest church?"

"It's not within walking distance, but there's one about twenty miles east of here."

That couldn't be it. "That's the only one you know of?" The man nodded. "Okay…well, thank you anyway."

Tim stepped back out into the cold, clutching the flowers to his side. The lot across the street was still vacant, save for the park. But that's exactly where the church had been…hadn't it?

As he got closer to the lot, he noticed a bronze plaque embedded in the concrete, right where he'd remembered the church steps being. He knelt down to read it:

In Loving Memory of Sister Mary Patrick who perished December 24th, 2003.

We will always remember our sister and friend, who brightened our darkest days and always gave us faith when we felt we'd lost it.

We know that she is now in the Kingdom of the Lord, looking down on us.

A chill ran down his spine and Tim felt his breath still within his body. Suddenly, the events of that Christmas Eve became surreal in his mind. Had she been real? Or had he simply imagined it all?

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. It had been as real as anything else in his life. Of that, he was sure. He had needed someone and God had answered his prayer, sending him guidance in the form of Sister Mary Patrick.

Tim gently ran his hand across the lettering of the plaque. And he suddenly felt that she was with him once more. "Thank you. Thank you so much." He placed the flowers beside the plaque, stood, and made his way back to the hospital, warmed by the presence of a guiding spirit, watching over him.