For me, Christmas has always been about lots of food, the bonds of family and dear friends, of children and caring and kindness. A tradition that began with my Grandfather, and that I still continue, is the Foundation Holiday Party. An event in which every employee of the Foundation’s “family” and their loved ones can enjoy themselves.

The adults enjoy the fabulous food, laughing, having loud conversations and, if the mood strikes, dancing, while their offspring devise activities to amuse themselves. The younger children play tag among the forest of legs or play hide-and-seek under and around the linen clothed tables. The teens tend to gather, holding their own conversations and occasionally participating in the dancing. And always in the background there is the live music, played by one of the numerous local bands.

This is the second winter since Spectra began their attack on us and with all the destruction that has occurred, I especially felt the need to continue this happy tradition. But this time the Team, my children, could not participate in the adolescent activities. They were to remain separate from them. They were being forced to, since they were attending as members of G-Force. I watched them standing tall and proud in their uniforms but I could also see how they had distanced themselves from those around them.

Now, two weeks after the annual Foundation Holiday festivities, the five of them had talked me into participating in what had become their own little tradition. I still can’t believe I let them talk me into this.

Ever since Jason had learned to drive, and had received his license, the five of them would disappear off on Christmas Eve. I had been told that the five of them would choose one location or another in the city and offer their help. When questioned one year they had explained to me that it helped them to connect to the people they were going to be protecting. And it especially helped if they could do this as “themselves.”

And this year they invited me to join them. So here we stand on Christmas Eve, in a room that has been transformed into a magical wonderland. The room is lit, by thousands of tiny, white lights, strategically placed throughout the room, and by two fully decorated trees which stand, one on each side of the stage. Onstage are a huge fireplace and a golden chair with a red velvet back and seat.

Also in this room there are children in varying degrees of illness or injury along with multiple nurses, doctors and orderlies. It is sad to see all these children here at Christmas time, but somehow they don’t let their condition dampen their spirits. They’re all gathering around, waiting for Santa to make his ho-ho-ho-ing appearance. Looking around, I hope there are enough gifts – there are more kids here than I had anticipated.

I look towards Mark and as our eyes meet he gives a warm, joyful grin and he tilts his head towards me. He then turns back towards Tiny and continues the conversation they are having.

Mark and Tiny are wearing silly-looking Santa hats, for which I believe Keyop is responsible. I look down at my hand seeing the hat I am holding and remembering that Keyop gave me one earlier, but I really do not plan on putting it on.

Princess, also wearing a hat, arrives as I am looking for a place to hide the thing. “Chief, are you not going to join in the Christmas Spirit?” she questions pointing towards the hat in my hand.

“Of course I am, Princess” I say and I find I am blushing because I really do not have an excuse for what I was going to do.

“I just always thought I might look better in reindeer antlers,” I joke, and then watch as Princess raises an eyebrow.

“There are not many people who could wear those antlers with dignity.” She replies dryly, “But I am sure Keyop could always dig up a set if you really wish to try.” She finishes.

“No,” I say pulling the hat on my head, “I think I will stick with this.

Princess gives a laugh and then as she is moving us towards Mark and Tiny she says, “We are thinking that it may be time to do a bit of entertaining until you-know-who finally decides to make an appearance.”

“What do you have planned to entertain this many kids clamoring for Santa Claus?” I ask.

“We were thinking about a story followed by a sing-along?” Tiny volunteers.

“Ahhh, sure!” I agree, half-heartedly. I don’t have much of a singing voice, but then these children wont want to hear The First Noel.

The five of us, Keyop included, make our way to the stage. As we approach the stage, the room becomes quiet and the kids’ attention becomes focused on us.

Princess steps forward with a smile and begins, “While we’re waiting for our special guest to appear, we thought we’d introduce ourselves. My name is Princess and over there is Doctor Claire. Some of you probably know her, since she works here.”

I see recognition on many of the children’s faces, and a little girl waves to Claire. “This is Tiny, and over there is Mark, and Keyop, and you can just call the tall guy,” Princess says, pointing towards me, “Chief.”

“Now that you know all of us.” She says, “How about I tell you a story while we wait for our guest?”

As the children all nod or voice their approval Princess walks to the front of the stage and sits down. She then begins her own rendition of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, much to the amusement of the children.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all though the Hospital.

Not a creature was stirring, not even an Orderly.

The stockings were hung on IV stands with care,

In hopes …

As Princess continues her story, I look around. The children are all hanging on her words and I can see smiles upon Keyop’s and Tiny’s faces as they dance around acting out the story. Realizing Mark is missing I look around in shock. Finally I spot him slipping in through the main doors. As Princess finishes her story, Mark glides unobtrusively through the crowd and silently leaps onto the stage. Smiling to myself it occurs to me that, once again, I am being shown why one of the nicknames Mark was given as a child is “Ghost”. He really does not like it, but it has stuck with him.

Now it is Mark who moves towards the front of the stage and announces “How about we sing some Christmas songs? Maybe Santa will hear them and come sooner!”

All of the children cheer, and we begin to lead them in Jingle Bells, Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, Up on the House Top, and finally, Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

Just as we finish the doors at the back of the room swing open, and a jolly “Ho ho ho!” sets the crowd to squealing. Quickly I jump off the stage, more than eager to surrender it to, Jason – or I should say, Santa Claus.

Over the years, it has always amazed me what a paradox Jason is – they all are, I remind myself. On one side, they are deadly warriors trained in the most top-secret methods of intelligence gathering, and on the other hand, they can be mischievous teenagers.

Jason always has a smart aleck remark hot on the tip of his tongue and a “toy” at the tip of his fingers. Mark, with his tactical and analytical mind, that appears to work as fast as any computer, also has innocent playfulness, when he allows it to show. Princess, her mind geared towards demolition is full of love and deep compassion. Keyop, who is able to crack into any computer system is full of exuberance; a clown. And Tiny, who is exceptionally strong is also reliable and gentle and, judging from the reaction of the children, extremely huggable.

Each of them is unique, and I thank God for them every day.

Looking back to the stage I see a line has formed in front of where Santa is sitting, and he’s lifting a boy onto his knee. The Santa costume is really impressive; if I didn’t know better, I’d never guess that it is Jason up there. Between the beard, the mustache and the glasses, he’s completely disguised.

Princess, Tiny and Keyop are handing wrapped presents to Santa which in turn will be handed to the children but my attention is drawn towards Mark. He has settled down on a step at the edge of the stage, a young boy is seated beside him. I remember being introduced to the boy earlier in the evening. Billy, if I recall correctly, is 7 years old.

“Santa doesn’t really exist, does he?” I hear the boy ask. I watch as Mark turns his head to look at Jason. Then as Mark returns his focus to Billy, I step closer to hear what his response will be.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, my Mom says that Santa exists, you just have to have lots of faith and believe. But …” The boy’s voice becomes so quiet, I almost do not pick up what he says next. “But, if he really exists then my father would be alive and here and Santa would stop the war.”

I see Mark squeeze his eyes close and take a deep breath. As he lets it out I am shocked when he whispers, “Sometimes, I doubt even angels can stop what is happening.”

Mark is then pulling the boy into his lap, holding him and saying, “I am going to tell you a story my Momma read to me when I was a little younger than you are. I had asked something similar as to what you just did.” As he spoke, Mark glanced towards me and gave a sad smile while continuing with, “Then you can decide what you think.”

Mark’s look makes me remember a time when he was 6. He had curled up on Barbara’s lap, tired after a day of shopping for presents and then helping to decorate the family tree. Mark had raised his head from Barbara’s shoulder, brushed a stay strand of hair out of his eyes, and asked, "Is there really a Santa?”

Barbara had traded a troubled, uneasy glance with me and then had inquired mildly, "Why do you ask?"

"At school …. It just doesn’t make sense," Mark had responded defensively. "How could there be? How can he go to all the houses in the world, in one night? And how can he get all those toys into one sled? And how can reindeer fly? It isn’t true, is it?"

"And when you look at your toys and read, ‘Made in China’, you know there isn’t some elf in the North Pole putting them together."

When Mark had nodded in agreement Barbara had continued with, "Well, in a way, you’re right Mark, and if you let me get up I will find a book that might solve this problem for you.”

Barbara had untangled herself from Mark and headed into the library. When she had returned she was carrying a book. As she had returned to her seat Barbara had held up the book she had been holding and had begun, “This story was written a long time ago. The writer was born in 1867 and her name was Laura Ingalls. She lived in a time when horses-and-wagons were being replaced with trains and cars. She wrote down many memories from her life and one of her early memories was about Christmas, which was coming. The house they lived in was a little ‘sod’ house, dug into the ground. Laura and her sister, Mary, were worried because there was no chimney in their house- so how could Santa Claus get in?"

Barbara then opened the book, flipped through a few pages looking for the part she wanted and then began to read:

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney if there was no chimney. One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come. Ma did not answer. Instead she said, "What do you girls want for Christmas?"

Laura said, "I want candy."

"So do I," Mary said, and Carrie cried, "Tandy?"

"And a new winter dress, and a coat, and a hood," said Mary.

"So do I," said Laura. "And a new dress for Charlotte, and-"

Ma said, "Do you know what Pa wants for Christmas?"

They did not know.

"Horses," Ma said. "Would you girls like horses?"

Laura and Mary looked at each other.

"I only thought," Ma went on, "if we all wished for horses, and nothing but horses, then maybe-"

Laura felt queer. Horses were everyday; they were not Christmas. If Pa got horses, he would trade for them. Laura could not think of Santa Claus and horses at the same time. "Ma!" she cried. "There IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?"

"Of course there’s a Santa Claus, the older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus," She said. "You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don’t you?"

"Yes, Ma," said Mary and Laura.

"Well, then," said Ma. "Then you see-"

"I guess he is like angels," Mary said, slowly.

And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning, you saw what that had done.

"If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then it would be Christmas all the time?" Laura asked, and Ma said, "Yes, Laura."

Barbara had stopped reading, closed the book and looked at Mark, who had been looking thoughtful.

"Like angels?” Mark had said at last. "So, he’s not...really a person, He’s ... a feeling." Mark said, trying to put into words what he had been thinking.

"Yes, he’s inside of us," Barbara had echoed. "The people and ornaments we see, with the beard and the red suit, that’s how we recognize Santa, as a figure of legend. It helps if a legend has a face that everyone knows. You could say he’s the Spirit of Giving." Barbara had spoken softly. "And he’s always jolly because when you do things for other people it makes you happy. That’s why Secret Santas enjoy it so much - it’s a chance to truly be a Santa Claus, to let that spirit inside of you slip in and leave a gift and slip away again without being seen. Like Santa; like magic."

Mark’s face had lit up with a smile, and he had said, "I like that! That makes more sense than elves and chimneys and reindeer!"

88888

A bump on my elbow brings me back to present only to hear Mark finishing his story. Billy has decided that he too likes the idea of everyone being Santa.

“Make a wish.” Mark encourages the boy “Not one for yourself, but for someone else, and see how you feel.”

Billy closes his eyes and after a bit a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. When Billy opens his eyes he pulls his mouth into a grimace but Mark leans towards the boy and I hear him say with a chuckled, whisper, “I told you it would work. Now, why don’t you go see what Santa has for you.”

Several hours later, the six of us are scattered on sofas and chairs relaxing around the fireplace in the lounge back at the mansion. Five sets of eyes are shining brightly with pride and satisfaction, but I can also see in them weariness.

“You made a good choice there, Jason.” Mark comments as he lays his head back, eyes closing. “We did a good thing, team.”

I notice how all five of them appear to be relaxed and content. At peace with themselves and perhaps with the world – at least, feeling like they had helped heal a little part of it. It occurs to me then that, in a way they were taking on the role of angels that Ma Ingalls and Barbara had talked about.

As children, young adults I have to remind myself again – Mark was now 20, only Keyop was in his teens at 19 - when they help others, like tonight, they are playing the part of “secret” angels. As G-Force they are more visible, more like the “Figures of Legend” Ma Ingalls talked about. Their “faces” are known and easily recognized, but they are still angels – and this time they have wings - helping to protect the planet and the people on it.

“Well, Skipper,” Jason is saying, “We would not have managed it, if it were not for your planning. How did you manage to know how many presents we needed? I thought for a while there we were going to run out.”

“Organization, my dear Second.” Mark responds with a tired smile. “Organization and preparedness.”

“Oh, that boy-scout stuff again.” Jason responds sarcastically. And I’m thinking there he goes with one of his a smart aleck remarks. He really should leave it alone.

As Mark’s head comes up Princess speaks up, “Jase, leave it for tonight. By the way, you looked really impressive in that Santa suit Jase. I could hardly tell it was you.”

Jason gives Princess a wink and replies arrogantly, “Yeah! You should have heard what some of those nurses were saying, when they found out how old I really was. I got a whole pocket full of phone numbers. A couple of those nurses were following you around Tiny. Were you lucky enough to get their numbers? And I saw how those two male doctors were ogling you Princess. Where you lucky? How about you Mark, did you score any phone numbers? Ohh, I forgot you only seem attract the eyes of teenage girls.”

Mark pushes himself to his feet, shoulders and back stiff, eyes cold and hard, “Maybe we should screen those numbers you have Jase, for security purposes. After all, we all know the track record you have with women. We wouldn’t want any of those “nice” nurses ending up dead now, would we?” Mark snarls before turning on his heels and leaving the room.

Princess pulls off a slipper and throws it at Jason before echoing my earlier thought, “Really crass Jase. You couldn’t just leave it for one day, could you?” And then she signs something too fast for me to read.

Jason mumbles a “Sorry,” to her. His fingers are also flicking back some reply and his eyes are sliding towards me. It is at times like these I wish I had not allowed them to make changes to their sign language. Jason tosses Princess her shoe back and, after she replaces it, she declares she is going to get a drink and then head up to her room, and bed.

The other three follow shortly after, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My mind goes back to the memory of Mark and Barbara. When I had questioned Barbara about why she had chosen that story to read to Mark, Barbara had commented on how “Caroline Ingalls was a remarkable woman. She had turned her children from acquisitiveness to generosity with just a few simple words and had also changed their belief in someone magical to something just as magical. She gave them the true meaning of Christmas, while also maintaining their beliefs.”

It appears that Mark has been trying to pass on some of those lessons that he learned from my wife. Unfortunately it does not appear to be taking hold with Jason. At least not for any length of time. Sighing I get up, walk out of the room and stand at the bottom of the stairs. Looking up the stairs in the direction the five headed, I catch myself sighing again. They have had a tough couple of days, returning from a long mission less than 48 hours ago and then spending a late evening tonight. No wonder they were looking tired as they sat around the fire.

I find myself climbing the stairs and walking down their hallway. I pause at the first door; Keyop’s room, and smile as I remember how he had been full of jokes, energy and enthusiasm just a few hours ago. Now through the crack where the door has not closed, I can see his room is dark. Beside Keyop’s room lies Princess’ and I can see no light shining from under her door either. Walking past I remember the warmth of her voice as she captured the audience with her story telling. She will make a great mother some day, much like Barbara did, if the war ever allows her to become one.

Across the hall is Tiny’s room. I do not have to open the door to hear the quiet snores already pouring out from his room. Others on my advisory team see Tiny as being too slow and careful. But there have been a number of times that his “simple” thoughts were the most successful during a mission. And tonight just being a big “teddy bear” for those children to cling to, was enough for him.

Jason’s room lies next to Tiny’s. Again I smile as I remember how Jason grumbled about having to wear the Santa costume this year. When Mark reminded him that since this location was Jason’s choice, he got the privilege of wearing the suit. Apparently this is what had been decided upon their first year of doing this.

I continue my walk down the hall to the last room. I know I am not meant to have favorites, in fact my advisory team keeps telling me I am not to have feelings for any of them at all. “They are soldiers. Emotions will interfere with your decisions.” But I can’t help it. Mark is mine. He has been living in my home since he was a baby. He carries the Anderson name. And if Joel, my wayward son, does not return, Mark may take on the responsibility of running the Foundation. That is, again, if this war allows him to survive.

Opening Mark’s door I slide in and step over to his bed. He is asleep on his back and is mostly under his covers with one arm thrown out and across his chest. I can see fading bruises, on his bicep and shoulder and I am almost tempted to brush the lock of hair, that is always in his eyes, off his forehead, but think better of it.

Feeling a cold draft I look up and towards the window. It is open a crack. Shaking my head I think how Mark has always needed that connection to the outdoors. I turn to leave and just as my hand touches the door handle I hear a sleepy mumble, “Are they okay?”

Spinning my head around so fast I wonder if I may have pulled a muscle in my neck, I can see Mark’s eyes are still closed. Only then does it occur to me what he is asking. “Yes. The others are all sound asleep. Or at least as asleep as I thought you were.”

From the hall light radiating into the room, I can see Mark give a slow smile, and then he whispers, “Merry Christmas, Chief.”

Nodding my head in acknowledgement, even though I know he cannot see, I whisper back, “Merry Christmas. See you in the morning …” Habit makes me say, “Mark.” But I am so tempted to change it to Son.

Leaving his room I walk back to the stairs and down to my office. I really have reports I should go over before I get some sleep myself. As I approach my desk I find, sitting in the center of it, on top of the reports I need to read, a rectangular, gold box tied with a red ribbon. I sit down at my desk, pick up the box and turn it over before setting it down again, wondering what this is all about.

It takes me a while to find the courage to untie the ribbon. I remove the lid from the box and find, lying inside, a book. Tipping the box, the book falls out and into my hand. When I open the cover, it is to discover it’s a first edition of On the Banks of Plum Creek by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Looking up at the bookshelves in my office I try to recall if this is the copy Barbara gave me many years ago. The one she read to Mark.

While I am leafing through the pages a small piece of paper falls out and flutters onto my desk. As I am putting down the book, so I can examine the slip, I notice the corner of another piece of paper trapped between the pages of the book. Opening the book to the place the paper is marking I discover it is the Christmas “memory” Mark was telling little Billy earlier this evening.

Looking down I pick up the yellowing slip of paper. I turn it over and am surprised to discover I recognize Barbara’s handwriting on it and it says … My wish is that he always keeps some of his innocence.

Who keeps his innocence? I wonder as I reach for the other piece of paper.

This paper, I notice, is folded in half and when I open it I discover it is a blank Foundation Report Form, but it’s dated from the previous year. As I set down the page it neatly folds itself closed again, only this time I can see the backside, and in Mark’s precise, flowing hand is written: My wish ….. If I fall, protect them.

Suddenly I feel my eyes burning as tears begin to form. Screwing my eyes up and rubbing the heels of my hands into the sockets I realize that, separately, those two wishes would mean nothing to most people. But when read together like that, they are very powerful.

Looking up at the ceiling, in the direction that Mark lies sleeping I wonder, did Mark know what he was doing when he gave me this gift? For it was most definitely he who left this for me. Does he not remember what he left in the book? That is not like Mark.

I realize I am too tired to work this out. I will not get my answers tonight and I certainly am not going to get any work finished now. Placing the two “wishes” back into the book I carefully place the book back in the center of my desk, push my chair back and stand up.

When I get to the door of my office I turn one last time to look at the book and unconsciously make a wish of my own … Don’t let him fall.