A Familial Christmas: A Poem

A Familial Christmas: A Poem
by Jean-Marc Saint Laurent 

At my family Christmas that happens annually,

There are places for my siblings, Satan, and me.

The prince of this world, this serpent of ground,

is on special duty when family's in town.

He is never invited but comes nonetheless,

and present with us in our familiar distress.

Our tree stands resplendent, brighter than our hearts,

and he takes this opportunity to rip us apart.

He adores our festive table with food everywhere,

Suggesting his malice between swallows and stares,

and giggles and grumbles and guffaws and gravy,

by tempting the men and pushing the ladies.

Swear us? Hardly, it be not our tea

but he injects venom in our insecurities.

Little Sister's depressed and wants not to stay,

Big Brother's sarcasm kills the mood o' the day,

Mother's mad from the hours she's worked all the years,

misused and abused, she's lost all her tears.

“Hardly-there father,” says older sister the host,

“Would be more of a father if he were a ghost.”

“Have some Christmas Spirit!” is Uncle's attack,

with a sin list so long it'd fit on five plaques,

“Just look at my kids,” and the demons arise,

piercing hearts, with bellowing, whining and cries.

Insults from Cousin 2 fly sharper than tacks,

with Cousin 1 all the ready to stab them in backs.

The in-laws offend with each poor utterance,

resting with excuse of supposed ignorance.

Old friends come to visit with faces so pleasant,

to destroy and defame people not present.

But by the kids' table is Cousin number 3,

more simple and kind than others could be.

No deceit in his words, no plans on his mind,

God-given innocence puts evil in-bind.

To say what you mean and to mean what you say,

are the proper tools to put devils away.

Seeing his heart so clean, we are reminded of sin,

And the carefree children, we each had been.

Those days have long left, those days are long lost,

Yet sin was the creature he killed on the cross;

Our Jesus divine of wintry season,

and gives all our days a' filling of reason.

So let us not hope in people or sights,

or glitter, or tree, or presents or lights,

or sleigh bells or Clauses or chocolate chips,

or promises and disappointments in our relationships.

May we look to the One above whom there's no other,

and maybe He'll keep us from killing each other.

Merry Christmas from my family to yours,

Jean-Marc

The Weakness of Happiness

The child that avoids confrontation by sitting with teacher.

The freshman that avoids upperclassman hallways.

The professional that avoids the venomous receptionist.

I have lived them all and know sloth when I see it.

Sloth is a sickness

Humid, it came in a middle school-aged sweat on a weekday morn years ago. Having been pursued by an unrecognizable few on ten-speeds to the point of imminent pain, I awoke abruptly to that feeling we term relief, which in minutes gave way to the crushing realization that my life actually resembled my nightmare. I had become an unwitting accomplice in embarrassing an unstable older student and he threatened me regularly with retribution. That dark morning in my bedroom is yet marked as the point I discovered that the decisions I made could lead to external and therefore internal imbalance—that feeling we term stress, the great unifier of time and people.

Waking yesterday, internal vertigo came on cue before coffee and without nightmarish persuasion. What did I fear? Nothing and yet everything. What was there not to fear when each day held potential for terror: moral err, depression, the encroaching wicked world and death. And I, being a Christian and a preacher-defender of God's Word would surely find myself once more at odds with popular opinion and the neighboring heathens; and therefore ostracized and misunderstood as a bigot to someone. If I could not live happy with peace of mind, why wake up?

No Pain, No Gain

Then I heard the phrase over the radio: spiritual athletics. It was a term used to describe the view of some fourth and fifth century saints. They saw the spirit as worthy of training as the body. And as the physical self required resistance to grow strong, so the spirit required struggle; it was for this reason they chose to live in the desert of Sinai, the epitome of struggle. But I am sure you would rather skip through a field of daisies right?

So let us skip in the field of daisies! Just be sure to put on your sneakers first, as they allow for the best skipping. Wait, no sneakers? That is a shame since the best tennis shoes will cost a pretty penny. So off to work you go, and if your luck is as good as mine has been, your overseeing manager will be a slave- driving psychopath that will make tranquility a near impossibility. Suddenly bliss-filled sessions of skipping seem less attractive when they can only take place during select late night and weekend hours. Maybe that is why Jesus never promised happiness—he would have been lying.

Get Right or Get Left

The word we now translate as “happy” first meant “lucky” or “favored by fortune” when originally used by the Greeks and later by the Europeans—happiness is a condition of circumstance. Our hope as Christians is not that our circumstances will make us feel “happy” or “lucky” but that we would find joy in the immutable, unchanging nature of God. A preoccupation with being happy is an obsession with a non-existent world, like the millions of poor souls in 2009 that reported they would have rather stayed watching a particular movie than return to their troublesome lives in this world.

“In this world you will have trouble” said Jesus in John 16:33, so to not expect trouble in it would be to not expect contact in American Football; life is a collision sport.

My cousin having recently returned from a military boot camp in Texas, recounts the trying details of his experience to the surprise of many. But when I think of it now, I wonder what would be more of a shock: to hear that his training was a daily hell or that it was the most delightful vacation of his life. The military trains the minds and bodies of our men and women in the anticipation of their engaging a fearsome enemy. Do we not have an enemy in the spiritual realm that requires comparable vigilance? And how much can a life of ease help us in completion of our campaign against the evil one and his forces? Very little, I am afraid.

“Pain is Temporal but Victory is Forever”

-Jeremy H.

There are usually two extremes suggested for solving the issue of spiritual sloth: complete surrender to reckless masochism or reckless hedonism, neither is what I suggest nor what the Bible proposes. Let us look back to John for an answer down the middle path.

“In this world you will have trouble” Jesus said in John 16:33. Taken as-is the quote may give a believer legitimate reason for fear or hopelessness, when in actuality it is simply a sour pickle in the middle of a sandwich. Thankfully, the scripture sits between: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace“ and “But take heart! I have overcome the world.” The answer to stress is to see all trouble in the context of Christ. He is our source of strength in this world gym.

As long as Satan holds a grudge and people with free will walk the earth, potential struggles and troubles walk with them but that need not trouble us. Struggle may be an expectation of athletics but victory is a promise for those in Christ Jesus.

“Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.”

• 1 Corinthians 9:25

In Him,

Jean-Marc

Links In The Chains by Jean-Marc Saint Laurent

Hello dear friends,

I am happy to say that the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated —I just live in Florida, simply meaning that I have traded outrageous train fees for outrageous gas fees and crazy neighbors for crazy relatives.

But living with family has its benefits, namely the chance of finding someone else's food to eat and picking up their stories while I have the chance.

"Your mother was about two months pregnant with you, " my father began, cleaning our Sunday chicken with grocer's lime, one Saturday night before.

It was the Autumn of 1985, my mother, growing rounder by the month took respite on the second floor of our Brooklyn home. Quite randomly, a visiting Nigerian pastor, my father met in a home prayer service came ringing the doorbell asking that they both see her right away.

He told my father to place his hand on her belly and pray. "You will have a son and he will be a servant of God" said the pastor and laid his hand on my father's in agreement as they both prayed for my destiny.

Months later when I was presented to the church, a newborn. I am told of the elderly pastor that held me and prophesied much glory over my life, only to die three days later.


No one recollects what denominations they were with. They were simply men of God.

Contrast those glorified predictions with this August, as I sat, much older in an old chair at my old church, with the eyes of an inquisitive old man watching me carefully.

Tired of Being a Good Soldier

Like a scene out of a blockbuster,

Imagine if you will:

You are an experienced soldier walking along the dry desert plain of ancient Turkey, back then just another part of the Roman Empire. It seems as though the parched ground cracks under your feet with every new step.

You are the desert oddity, properly adorned with all of the accouterments of battle: all golden helmet, armor, belt, sword and boots which bear the symbols of your homeland: the fierce lion and the majestic eagle. And unfortunately with you also is the burdensome shield you have been dragging for miles since leaving camp.

The sun's heat has turned your costume into a golden pressure cooker. The sweat pouring from your head stings your eyes yet provides the only relief of the day.

"Seems more like detriment than defense", you say to comrades, wiping your brow.

But when there is no response, you turn your head and helmet right, and then left — no one, as far as you can see, for miles.

"How long have I been traveling like this? Where is everybody?"

Then,
'Pfft!' 

It sounds like a bird crash landed into your shield but being a smart one , you know that not much flies in the desert except for vultures, and this was definitely not a vulture. You cautiously peek from behind the shield to investigate.

'Pfft!' 

The second one was aimed at your head  — " Fire? Arrows of fire", you surmise as the blaze builds off the top of your shield, your now beautiful and useful shield.
"Where about are they?” you anxiously question, considering all visible options.
Frozen and squatted into your defensive stance, you stand cautious, as not to move a single muscle.
"Just wait for it".