A/N: I hadn't planned on another installment of my series starring Father Charles. It was a surprise, but as I was listening to What Child Is This? by TSO, I just had a story pop into my head. It really has nothing to do with the song, but here it is. I don't think it's the best of my entries, and I had no help on Catholic stuff this time; so if there are any errors, I apologize. They are entirely my own.

Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or the characters in it. Father Charles, however, is my own invention. Regardless, I'm making no money from this story.

Words Cannot Define
by Enthusiastic Fish

Father Charles loved Christmas. He always had. Never had he approached the celebration of the birth of Christ with such turmoil in his soul. A crisis of faith? No. His faith was as strong as it generally was. There were questions in his mind. Yes. Questions. He had long since accepted that he did not understand the mind and will of God at all times. Who could? But at this moment, he wanted to. He really wanted to.

When a mother looked at him and begged to know why this horrible thing had happened, why her child was dead...just before Christmas... that was when he struggled. It wasn't about platitudes. That wouldn't fix anything. Words weren't enough when one was talking about the loss of a child.

As he approached the altar, he hesitated. Father Charles wasn't sure he was ready to come before the Lord like this.

Why do you allow this suffering in a mother?

That was the question. Children sometimes died before their parents, but this had been so pointless. Two men fighting over who was the toughest. A gun drawn and bullets fired. Had either of those men been hit? No. No, instead of that which would have been sad but at least confined to those who had begun it, instead of the injury or death of a grown man who had never really grown up, an eight-year-old boy had been killed while out with his sister, shopping for a Christmas present for his mother...who would now have only the loss of her son for Christmas instead of the silly little gifts children often bought for their parents.

Father Charles was a priest. He had been for years. However, he was still human, and he still felt anger at the injustice.

It isn't fair, he thought. It was a stupid thought. Life had a tendency to be unfair. They lived in a fallen world, a mortal world where mankind had the freedom to choose to be stupid...and far too often that was the choice.

He couldn't approach the altar. Instead, he sat down on a pew, trying to work through his own feelings of helplessness and anger. Yes, he was angry. Was he angry at God? Perhaps a little. He wasn't perfect. God knew his heart, knew his feelings. He might as well be honest about it to himself.

In the silence of the empty church, he leaned forward and closed his eyes, not in prayer, but in meditation. Turning his mind inward to try and find what he could say, to be able to comfort a grieving parent...and to feel for himself that there was a way out of this tragedy. How did one celebrate the birth of a child when one had just lost a child? Yes, the birth of Christ was their spiritual salvation, but at this moment, when the grief was fresh, it was physical salvation that mattered.

For a long time, Father Charles sat there, quietly. Not praying but thinking. He didn't pay attention to the passage of time. Part of him was surprised that no one had come in, but it was later than he realized.

After a while, he realized that someone was in the church with him. He opened his eyes and looked around. Over in a small alcove, someone was lighting a candle. Father Charles recognized the man. He smiled and got up to join him.

"Tim, what brings you here?"

Tim turned around and smiled. No injuries that Father Charles could see which was good.

"I was surprised that it was open, actually," he said. "It's after midnight, and it's not Christmas night, yet."

"Normally, it wouldn't be," Father Charles said. "I was meditating. How are you?"

Tim raised an eyebrow at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"Are you diverting my attention?"

Tim cocked his head to the side.

"Something's wrong. I'm fine. It's coming on to the anniversary of the accident. I'm still bothered by it, but things are going all right. So what's wrong?"

"Just some struggling against my baser inclinations."

Tim's eyes widened a bit, and Father Charles found that he could laugh.

"I'm sure it's not whatever you were just thinking. Can I ask you a question?"

"You're asking permission?" Tim asked. "That's different."

"I can do it...occasionally."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Every time I've seen you here, you've been lighting a candle."

"Oh...is that a problem? I thought you didn't have to be Catholic to do that."

"It's fine. Stop assuming that you're doing something wrong. I'm just curious."

Tim shrugged self-consciously.

"I hope it's not too selfish. I was lighting them for myself."

"Not from my perspective, but I'll bet there's more to it. Isn't there?"

"Maybe a little bit."

"Tell me."

Tim smiled. "Well...after talking with you about it...I started to think that...that maybe part of what would help everyone else would be if I wasn't dwelling on it so much...if I was healed. So...I was kind of...praying that God would heal me...bring me the peace I didn't have." He looked a little embarrassed. "I wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing, if I was supposed to light candles for myself, but...but...I figured that, if God understands everything, knows us...then, He'd know why I was doing it. Is that all right?"

"Of course, it's all right, Tim," Father Charles said.

"Good...so...what's wrong?"

"This isn't your job or your responsibility. What brings you here when you thought the church would be closed anyway?"

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. Figured I didn't have anything to lose by trying. Just...seemed like the right time."

Father Charles looked at Tim with new eyes. He was used to seeing Tim as someone who needed help, guidance or just companionship. That is, he thought of Tim as someone who needed him, even if he was still resisting becoming a Catholic. Now, as he thought about what Tim had just said, he saw him as something else.

A symbol of God's mercy.

"Are you sure you're ready for an answer?" he asked.

Tim smiled. "Yeah. I'm ready. I couldn't sleep tonight. Might as well be here as staring at the ceiling of my apartment."

Father Charles smiled back and walked to a pew. Tim followed him and they both sat down.

"A few days ago, one of the members of the congregation lost her son. She's a single parent. She had two children...and now, she has one."

"That's awful," Tim said. "What happened?"

"Two men got into a fight and one of them drew a gun. The boy and his sister were out Christmas shopping. A stray bullet him."

Tim's eyes were very expressive, and now, they were horrified and saddened. Almost, Father Charles stopped the conversation. Tim didn't need more pain...but something kept him talking.

"I was there with her in the hospital when she got the news that her eight-year-old son had died. For the first time in a long time...I had no answers for her. None. She asked me why God would do this to her at this time of the year. I could tell her that it wasn't God who had killed her child, but beyond that...I had nothing to say that could comfort her, could ease her grief, even a little. We should be celebrating the birth of Christ, but how can she look beyond this very understandable grief and anger to see something worth celebrating? All she wants is her son back...and she can't." Father Charles sighed and leaned on the pew in front of him. "Telling her that there is hope for him in heaven isn't enough right now. The eternal perspective is hard to gain when you're burying your only son."

Tim was quiet, saying nothing, not even moving, really. Father Charles didn't have much to say, but he felt that he should clarify his own feelings.

"I'm not claiming a crisis of faith, Tim. Just a very un-priest-like anger and a sadness that has surprised me with its depth."

"Did you know the boy well?"

"No. He spent half of his time with his father."

Again, silence fell. Father Charles felt that he must have surprised Tim more than a little, but Tim didn't speak for a long time. He just sat there on the pew. Father Charles didn't embarrass him by looking at him as if he wanted Tim to answer all his questions. He didn't. Really, all he wanted was to be able to confess to being a bit lost...and to say it to someone who wouldn't judge him as a priest for this momentary confusion and anger.

"I'm not an expert on...on Christianity," Tim said finally, with a lot of hesitation in his voice.

"That's not required."

"But...something you told me at Easter...you said that we celebrate Christmas because of Easter. If Jesus was born to die, like you said, then...then...He knows about what happened, right?"

"Of course."

"And He feels it."

"I can't imagine that a loving God wouldn't."

"And He knows how this feels."

"Yes."

"But He doesn't tell you what to say every week when you give your sermons...does He?"

Father Charles smiled. "No, He doesn't. He leaves it to me except when there's something really important to say, and even then, it's not a voice I hear, more a pull to a particular topic or scripture."

"But you still know about Him. You told me that He loves us, but you know that without hearing him say it to you, right?"

"Right."

"Then...and maybe I'm way off here...maybe you don't need the right words."

Father Charles waited to hear Tim finish his thought.

"God's love is something you feel, something you know without the words to describe it. There's a scripture I think I remember...something about God knowing about every bird that falls?"

"Matthew 10:29."

"The God you've taught me about is really understanding about these things. She doesn't need answers, not right now. If she's been here and listened to you, she knows the answers. She needs...what I needed when I came here a year ago. I was completely lost. I didn't know what I was doing. All I knew was that my friends could die and it would be my fault. I was so addled that...that I didn't know really everything you were saying, but you saved me, Father."

Now, Father Charles turned to him. Tim was very earnest. In fact, his voice got a bit thick as he continued.

"I have a problem with...with taking blame for things. I've had some hard experiences as an agent. I... There's a witness to a murder who got killed on my watch. I shot an undercover police officer and I'll never know whether or not it was my bullet that killed him. I told you about the car accident when I was a teenager. I've had more than my share of...of hard moments. When I came here, I don't think you realized how far gone I was. It hadn't really become a conscious thought yet, but I was on my way to believing that I deserved to die, and you stopped me from feeling that simply because you were there and didn't leave me alone in a moment when I was questioning my right to live. Father, I don't pretend to know how you feel right now. Grief is something...individual, I think, but you know all these answers, too. Maybe you just need to feel the answers and help that mother feel the answers, too. Why else would the story of Christmas survive all these years?"

Father Charles felt tears in his eyes. It was as if he was hearing the voice of God, although he wasn't sure Tim could handle hearing his words described that way. He looked toward the altar that he hadn't wanted to approach before. Then, he looked back at Tim.

"Tim...thank you."

Tim hitched his shoulder uncomfortably.

"I'm not good at this stuff. I was trying to say it right...so that it would make sense."

Father Charles reached out and put his hand on Tim's shoulder.

"No, Tim. You're very good at this stuff. I never knew how deep your feelings went. I knew you weren't thinking clearly and that you might hurt yourself by wandering in the snow. I would never have assumed that it would go further than that."

Tim flushed a little.

"You're right. What you've said is nothing I haven't heard and said myself before, but it's like I'm hearing it for the first time. It's a revelation."

"I wouldn't go that far," Tim mumbled.

"I would, Tim. Easily. Whether you believe it or not, I believe you're here because I needed you here. I needed someone to come and hear me...and say what I needed to hear."

"And I did that?"

"Yes, you did. I've been sitting in here for hours, not praying, just thinking. Waiting for when I felt ready."

"Aren't you always ready?" Tim asked.

Father Charles shook his head.

"No. I'm not. I'm still human, Tim, even with this collar."

"I know, but..."

"But in religious things, I'm supposed to be perfect."

"Maybe not perfect, but you sure seem perfectly suited to your job."

"Thank you, but even a priest can have an off day or two."

"I guess so."

Tim stood up, and Father Charles did as well. Then, before Tim could step back into the aisle, Father Charles hugged him tightly.

"Thank you, Tim. You will never know how important your visit tonight was."

Then, he let Tim go and Tim shrugged again.

"I'll still wait for when you realize how well-suited you are to this place."

"Don't start that again," Tim said with a smile.

"We need someone like you, but I'll be patient. Now...are you sure you're all right?"

"Actually...I feel better now than I did when I came in. Not sure why that is."

"Because you touched the heart of another. You can't lift someone without being lifted yourself."

They walked back toward the door of the church.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't stop lighting candles unless you feel you don't need them. God will hear you, no matter what, but if you want to light one, do it."

"Okay...Father."

"I hope you'll be at the Mass next week."

"I'm going to try. Work doesn't always let me."

"I know."

"But if I can, I will."

Tim put out his hand and Father Charles shook it firmly. Then, he left. Alone once more, Father Charles looked back at the altar. As he approached it, the final verse of a Christmas carol came into his mind.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him
Give my heart.

He knelt before the altar and made the sign of the cross. Then, he bowed his head and began to pray. As he prayed, he felt the tears fall down his cheeks, but as he pled for comfort and guidance, he realized that he'd already been given what he needed and this was just the next step in his own private healing.

As he recommitted himself to the calling he had received, Father Charles was filled with gratitude for the visit of a man who didn't truly comprehend how much he made a difference. Quietly, he recited the prayer written by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

"Moonless darkness stands between.
Past, the Past, no more be seen!
But the Bethlehem star may lead me
To the sight of Him Who freed me
From the self that I have been.
Make me pure, Lord: Thou art Holy;
Make me meek, Lord: Thou wert lowly;
Now beginning, and always,
Now begin, on Christmas day."

Then, finally, he got to his feet and went home and slept, knowing that he had something to give.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

One week later...

Father Charles looked out over the congregation as he prepared to close the Midnight Mass. Many hours of crying had finally given way to a tempered grief that could allow some of God's love to gain purchase in her heart, and now, the mother and her daughter were sitting together. They were crying, but still present at the Mass.

At the back of the church, where he'd come in late, stood Tim. Father Charles was glad to see him. Tim still wasn't a regular attender, but he was there when he could be. He was more faithful than some of the baptized Catholics, to be honest.

Father Charles closed the Mass and dismissed the congregation. Then, he spoke with many of them for a while afterward. As he knew he'd see, when he finally had a moment to look around, he saw Tim lighting a candle. He walked over.

"Still needing it?" he asked.

Tim looked up and smiled.

"Yeah. The last few days have been harder. Bad memories. I'm working on it, though."

"Good."

"And you?"

"I'm back on an even keel."

"I'm glad...and the woman you told me about?"

"She's still struggling, but now, she's struggling with hope of improvement."

"Good. Thanks for letting me come here, Father."

"Always. You're always welcome."

"Thanks...and merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, too."

That was all. Father Charles got pulled into another conversation and Tim waved to him and then left. Tim would always be welcome here, and Father Charles felt that, as long as Tim did keep coming, then, there would always be something more for him to do, something more to reach for.

And that was a blessing indeed.

He knelt and bowed his head.

"Gloria in excelsis Deo."

FINIS