(Note: This story takes place the first Christmas after Horatio has arranged for his brother, Raymond, and his family to leave Miami for Brazil.)

O COME ALL YE FAITHFUL

The tall, slender man entered the confessional, sat down and closed the door. He removed his sunglasses and bowed his head in the darkness. After several seconds, he took a deep breath, sliding open the small partition on his right. Unable to see the face on the other side, he nevertheless recognized the voice when the priest began to speak. The sound comforted him.

It was like coming home.

"My child, have you come to seek penance for your sins?" asked the priest.

"I have, Father."

"Tell me what is troubling you."

Where do I begin? the man wondered. He began to fiddle with the sunglasses in his hands. "I'm not sure where to start, Father."

The priest paused for a moment, thinking. "Start with what is upper most in your heart – we'll work our way backward from there."

The man nodded in the darkness. He could do that. "It's Christmas Eve, Father. I know it's wrong, but I hate the season."

"It's a hard time for many. You're not unique in that regard."

"No, I suppose not. It doesn't make it any easier though. So many memories, many of them bad. The good ones… well, even the good memories are painful."

"How so?"

"The people I love – they're gone. My brother, his wife… my nephew. With the exception of a small girl, my brother's child from another relationship, I'm without family. I don't know when, if, I will ever see my brother again."

"I don't understand – can you not visit?"

The man laughed suddenly. It was soft laughter, laced with bitterness. "No, Father, I can't do that. My brother's a dead man for all intents and purposes. To visit him would resurrect him. In spite of my desire to see him and his wife and my nephew, I can't. It would endanger them. It's ironic, don't you think? What my father couldn't accomplish, my brother managed to do."

The priest had recognized the man's voice as soon as he'd begun speaking. His last parish had been in New York, and he'd spent many hours with this man, hearing his confessions. He sighed heavily, remembering the man's terrible history. His was a tortured soul, seeking penance for that for which there could be none.

"My son, your father was a broken man, driven by drink."

"Not just drink, Father. He was brutal. When he wasn't making my mother's life a living hell, he was beating up my brother. I don't know how many times he threatened to kill him. The old man must be smiling because my brother is as good as dead to me now."

"You mustn't be bitter. It's past history."

"That's just it! It's never past history! I'll never get past the old man. He'll be with me until the day I die." Again the soft, bitter laughter. "He'd like knowing that."

"Then why give him the satisfaction? Let the past go. He's dead."

"He is that," came the soft reply. "Thanks to me. Tell me, Father, how does a man ever hope to see the face of God, knowing he's killed his own father?"

"His hope lies in the way in which he conducts his life. You know this, my son. We've been over it countless times. Penance comes in the form of positive action. The lives you save, the things you make right, the hope you bring to the desperate. The world is a terrible place; you've seen that in your line of work. You've seen your history isn't unique. God has given each of us a role to play – and a history that prepares us for it."

"You think seeing my father use his family as a punching bag was some sort of preparation?" The man's voice was harsh.

"I do. Remember, God's ways are not ours. Would you be as sympathetic toward others if you hadn't first required sympathy? Would you feel so keenly the need to protect the weak if you hadn't been the one who once needed protection? There are reasons and seasons for the things we do in life. You know this in your heart."

The man sighed. "Yes, yes... But, Father, to lose my brother a second time, to not see my nephew…"

The priest sensed there was something more, and he was troubled. "My son, what aren't you saying?"

The man shuddered. "I miss her."

"Her?"

"My brother's wife."

Silence. It continued so long that the man almost got up and left, believing it confirmation of his sinfulness. How could a decent man covet his own brother's wife?

"You care for her?" the priest asked.

The man shook his head ruefully. "More than I should, Father."

"You care for her more deeply than a brother-in-law?"

Silence filled the church once more, only broken by the sound of a passing car on the street outside.

The priest was a wise man, knowing when someone was holding out on him, especially this man.

"Tell me about her," the priest suggested.

The man let out a deep sigh. "She's my brother's wife, whatever I felt about her is irrelevant."

"It is hardly irrelevant if it has brought you to the house of God." The priest's tone was calm and measured.

"We'd all thought my brother dead. My nephew needed a father figure, someone to steer him in the right direction. God knows my brother never had much of a moral compass."

"And your brother's wife?"

The man closed his eyes, his mind assaulting him with images of a tearful, grieving woman. A woman he felt compelled to soothe, healing the damage that his brother's careless disregard for his own safety had caused.

"She was a single parent, struggling to cope with not only her own grief, but that of her son. How does a mother tell her child that his father is never coming home?"

"It must have been a difficult time for you all," the priest suggested.

"My nephew was so young when my brother abandoned them. Someone needed to look after those he'd left behind."

"You took on the mantle of being guardian to your brother's family?"

The man let a bitter laugh escape, chewing his bottom lip, clamping his fingers down on the sunglasses in his hands. "Our childhood affected us in different ways, Father. My brother… he chose to do as he pleased, rarely taking responsibility for anything. If life dealt him a hard blow, it was because of what had happened to him as a child. It was his shield against the world."

"And what did you choose, son?" the priest asked.

"I didn't have a choice," the man returned, his voice angry. "I did what I always do, I cleaned up after my brother's mess. I made myself responsible for his actions. It was my job to protect him because I couldn't protect him from our father."

"It wasn't your responsibility to protect your mother and brother. You were no more than a child yourself. Your father was a cruel and violent man, he showed you no love or affection yet you are kind and gentle. You chose the path that your father, and your brother, did not."

"I had impure feelings for my brother's wife, the family that I swore I would protect. That alone makes me a sinner, Father."

"Did you ever act upon these feelings?"

Sitting in the darkness of the booth, an image from the past haunted the troubled man. An image where he had come achingly close to kissing her. She was the forbidden fruit in his Garden of Eden, tempting him with the lure of something heavenly, if only he would give in to temptation…

"Almost… once."

"What stopped you?"

The man himself wondered. Sighing, he leaned his head against the sidewall of the confessional. "I don't know, Father. She kept telling me it was time to speak for myself, that I was making things too complicated, that my brother was dead… that it was time to move on. She said she had feelings for me. As much as I wanted it, wanted her, it just never felt right."

"Perhaps that was the Holy Spirit protecting you from grievous error."

The man didn't know what to say. In his heart, he thought there might be something to what the priest was saying. Had he consummated the relationship and then found his brother still alive, it would have crushed him…

Even more than his father's death at his own hands.

"Son, you withstood temptation. In the end, you did the right thing, yes?"

Again the laughter without humor. "Oh yes, I did the right thing. I loaded her and my nephew onto a plane for another country. My brother… my brother was on the plane, waiting for them… waiting for his family."

"As it should be, Horatio."

The man stiffened at hearing his name. He realized the priest had recognized his voice, his story. Even so, it startled him.

"Your brother's family has moved on, hopefully toward healing. Now you must look to your own heart, build your own family."

"Build a family? I wouldn't know how. Everyone I've ever loved has been taken from me or has left. Perhaps that's my penance for my father's murder – never again to have a family. Maybe this is all I'll ever have – a job, a city to protect, an empty house to come home to at the end of each day…"

"That's self-pity talking. You know what your penance is: to right those wrongs that you have in your power to correct. As for the rest of it, do you think God would demand so much of you, Horatio? Could he treat one who loves him so callously?"

"Do I love him, Father?" Horatio sometimes wondered, yet was unable to escape his Catholic faith.

"You're here, aren't you? Only lovers return to the source of their love." The priest shifted in his chair, trying to put his thoughts in order.

"You torture yourself, Horatio. It is not God who tortures you. Don't you realize he sees into your heart? Your past, your present? He sees your future. He judges the intent of your heart, the content of your character. He knows what went on in your father's house, what you were up against. He understands and he forgives."

"Then why the penance?"

"It's not for God, Horatio. It is your own heart that demands it. You cannot forgive yourself – and so you seek to lessen the guilt you feel for actions that God has long since forgiven. You are much harder on yourself than God is."

Horatio said nothing. There was truth in the priest's words.

"Tell me, son… is there no one in your life that you feel close to?"

A sudden image rose up in Horatio's mind of a bright, sparkling personality, of emerald green eyes, blond hair – and a smile that could brighten the darkest day.

"There's one person…"

"Yes?"

"She's good. Funny, sweet… fresh. Too fresh, too good for me."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?" Horatio's voice was curt. "You know the history, the guilt, the darkness. How can I ask her to walk such a dark road with me? She's too… clean."

"Love's a powerful force, Horatio. It was love that compelled God to step down from heaven, taking on man's form and living in the midst of messy humanity. Isn't that what we're celebrating this Christmas Eve? That God so loved the world that he entered it so that we might have hope and light. It is the light of love that helps us travel roads shrouded in darkness.

"If there is love in this woman's heart, she will gladly walk a dark and lonely road with you – and bring light and warmth to it. But you need to hold out your hand and ask her to walk it with you. Do you understand this?"

"I need to think about it, Father."

"Yes, well, you do that. And now, son, let me pray for you."

Horatio felt some of his depression lift as the priest prayed. When the prayer concluded, Horatio rose to leave.

"Horatio – "

He paused. "Yes, Father?"

"Be gentle with yourself. You're a fine man, Horatio. God loves you – as do I… Now, give someone else permission to love you."

After spending time in the darkened church, the bright glare of the Miami sun caused Horatio to lift a hand to his eyes. Giving himself a moment or two to adjust, he spotted a figure sitting on the steps outside the holy building.

Not just any figure. Even though her back was turned, he would have recognized those long blond tresses anywhere.

Calleigh.

Was the priest right about love finding a way through the guilt and sadness? Was Calleigh the one to light his path, to care enough about him to steer him through the darkness? He was so tired of loneliness, of sadness. He wanted laughter, bright smiles.

He wanted love.

For several moments, he stood there, unable to move. Finally, he spoke. "Calleigh?"

She turned, looking over her shoulder. A smile lit her face, and it was enough to ignite a small ember of hope within him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked softly, making his way down the steps to sit next to her. His arms resting on his knees, he looked around and spotted her car parked across the street from the church.

"I followed you here," she answered. "I was worried about you."

"There's no need to be concerned. I'm okay," Horatio responded, twiddling the arms of the sunglasses he held.

"You didn't look okay earlier. You don't look okay now."

His head dropped. How he wanted to be closer to her, to allow some of her warmth into his life! But he was damaged goods; he would never be able to offer her anything good. He wanted her, but valued her happiness more. It was better to love her from afar than allow his own dark shadows to infect her.

"It's Christmas Eve, Horatio. Why are you here by yourself?"

As much as he might have wanted to, he couldn't tell her the reason he'd come to unburden his soul.

"Christmas is a time for togetherness, a time for people to spend with those they love," he answered finally.

"Then why are you here?" she asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Horatio let out a small, bitter laugh. "My family's gone. I'm on my own. I came here, hoping to find some answers. I was hoping to feel less lonely..."

"But you're not alone."

"Calleigh, sweetheart – "

"You have me."

He closed his eyes. Her words were like an answer to a prayer he hadn't the courage to utter. She couldn't mean what she was saying. She merely felt pity for a friend who was alone at Christmas.

"You don't mean that. I have nothing to offer… nothing to give."

He didn't see the tender smile that lifted the corners of her mouth. "Oh, Horatio… Don't you realize that I care about you? You've been walking this road on your own for so long now. Don't you ever get tired? Lonely?"

"More than you know, sweetheart."

He looked at her now, seeing the tenderness and compassion in her eyes. "I promised myself something a long time ago," Calleigh began.

"What was that?"

"That I'd never let you walk alone, that I'd be there with you to lighten the load when things got tough. That's why I followed you here today. You're not the type of person who asks for help, you'd rather be the one to do the helping."

"Calleigh, I never asked – "

"And neither did I expect you to," she cut him off. "I'm here because I want to be here, sitting next to you… sharing Christmas with you. After all, Christmas is about spending time with the people you care about… the people who you love..."

How did she know exactly what to say? he wondered.

He closed his eyes, swallowing thickly. His emotions threatened to overcome him. "Please don't say things like that. If you don't mean – "

He felt her fingers lifting his chin. "Open your eyes, Horatio."

He refused. He couldn't bear to look into those eyes and find pity there. It wasn't pity he wanted from Calleigh. He wanted her to love him like a man, not a friend who needed sympathy during the holidays.

"Please," she repeated softly. "Look at me.

"Why can't you believe that this is something that we both want?" she asked as Horatio slowly opened his eyes.

"Because I have nothing to offer you. I don't deserve to be happy. Not after the things I've done."

"And I've never met anyone who deserved it more. Please, Horatio, let me in."

He shook his head. "You have no idea what you'd be getting yourself into."

"I'm going into this with my eyes open. We're both adults, aren't we?"

Horatio was quiet for a moment, studying Calleigh's face. Looking into her eyes, he found nothing but truth there.

"You've been walking this road by yourself for too long," she said. "Let me walk it with you."

"Calleigh, I don't want your pity – "

"And I'm not offering you any. I'm offering you something more… if you want it."

His heart full, he tried to speak, but couldn't.

She held up a hand to silence anything he might say. "Please, Horatio, don't say anything. Just take my hand and we'll face this together." Smiling, she lowered her hand, offering it to him.

Horatio fought a quick, inward battle. After years of penance, was this God's answer? Love wrapped in the form of Calleigh, the young woman he cared so much for? Could she offer him the salvation he'd spent so many years in search of?

Who knew what lay ahead or how long Calleigh would travel the path with him, but maybe her light might help him find his way. For too long he'd felt he'd lost, cut off from anything good or happy. Like the North Star, she could be the one to guide him back to the light.

To take her hand would be a show of faith. Faith in her, faith in himself… maybe even faith that God answers prayers just when answered prayers are needed. Hadn't that been the reason he'd come here in the first place? To convince himself that he hadn't lost all hope?

He remembered then what the priest had said about love being a powerful force. Love and faith. The two always went hand in hand.

Was there still enough of both left inside him? He thought so.

He took her hand then and squeezed it lightly. Her touch was already beginning to chase away the shadows.

Unbeknownst to them, a priest stood watching the silent pair from the church's doorway. He smiled and offered up a silent prayer.

Thank you, Lord, for miracles, great and small.

Authors' Note: We would like to wish all of our readers a Merry Christmas! May all good things come your way in 2015.