A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  “But you know, the Lord spoke to many people in the Bible through dreams. Abraham, Jacob, Solomon, just to name a few. I am merely suggesting that God may be trying to arrest your attention at a time when you have no other choice but to listen—when you are asleep. Tell me something. Have you always wanted to be a . . . a . . . what is the correct term?”

  “A motivational speaker.”

  “Yes, yes—a motivational speaker. You have always wanted to be one?”

  Jermaine shrugged, gradually beginning to feel his defensive walls slowly coming down. Maybe it was due to the still-shocking reality that he was currently in a mental hospital, or because the only other people he might have occasion to open up to were on his own payroll, making them always partial to him. But this man seemingly had nothing to gain by what Jermaine told him.

  “I don’t know. I . . . guess. I mean, I’ve always been able to connect with people through my speaking. Ever since I was a little kid. And my Aunt Bell . . .”

  Am I really saying all this?

  “ . . . my Aunt Bell, she used to take me around with her on the weekends and let me talk to groups of elderly people in nursing homes. She . . . uh, she used to volunteer at those kinds of places all the time.” He could not believe he was freely unloading all of this personal history, but then again what did he have to lose? What did it matter anymore, really?

  “At first, I used to hate going. But after I started talking to them—you should’ve seen how their faces just lit up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July . . . I got hooked, I guess. So little by little, I started doing all sorts of things for the community, churches, schools—you name it. I was a little legend all around Baltimore. Practically had my own speaking business before I even graduated high school.”

  “It is evident that your whole life has been shaped around your speaking. I have to tell you, though—what you do is not who you are, my son. I know we try to combine those two areas, but it does not work that way. Just because you are gifted in a particular area does not mean that such a talent will define every aspect of your life. And in your case, I am sad to tell you, though you are an inspirational speaker, you seem not to know what inspiration truly is.”

  Jermaine’s eyes narrowed in slight irritation, but for some reason he did not swiftly respond with a sarcastic remark. Something about the old man’s gentle rebuke reminded him of how his Aunt Bell used to talk to him. Stern love. Tough love.

  “Would you care to know what inspiration really is?”

  Almost a minute passed before Jermaine, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

  Ambrose looked to the ceiling for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was trembling ever so slightly. “There is a spirit in man . . . and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding. That is from the book of Job, my son.” He paused before continuing. “So you see, there is a spirit within us breathed from God Himself that produces a yearning for a greater understanding of life. It is the breath of God living inside every human being that makes us long to witness the extraordinary, yes, even the supernatural. It is the breath of God that makes us long to live abundant, purpose-filled and joyful lives. For God breathed into us the breath of life and caused us to become living souls. Literally, that is what the word inspire means—to breathe in. Did you know that?”

  Jermaine shook his head.

  “The One who breathed into us and caused us to become living souls . . . He is the only one who can truly . . . inspire us.”

  Chapter twenty-six

  FOUR CURRENT ARTICLES from prominent national newspapers lay strewn across Mario Jordan’s desk, each one providing a victory of sorts for the agent. His client had now been receiving treatment at Atascadero for a month, and in the all-important public opinion polls, the first signs of positive change were beginning to emerge.

  Mercifully taken off the front page at last (a place reserved for the more-pressing war against terrorism and the resulting partisan politicking), the news of the country’s former number one motivational speaker now centered around the reputed progress of his psychiatric treatments. The latest rumors on the Los Angeles grapevine were all reporting Jermaine to be responding wonderfully to his therapy. And in Mario’s opinion, the best news of all was that Chantal Dixon and StarWatch News were finally relenting in their all-out attack to defame the name of both himself and Jermaine. It had been a crushing and humiliating beating, to be sure, but Mario knew that it would not last forever. Because as Chantal’s stock began to rise—she was currently entertaining offers from the networks—a dynamic was actually beginning to work in Mario’s favor. For when Chantal got hired on by the big-leaguers, she would have less and less time for following up on personal vendettas. Everything was brilliantly going according to plan.

  “Ah, the powers of a master spin doctor,” he thought to himself as he prepared to make several calls to the producers of key daytime talk shows. Upon Jermaine’s now sooner-than-expected release, Mario was making sure he engineered a perfectly constructed itinerary designed to engender maximum public sympathy. In no time at all, his client would once again be the most visible and sought-after speaker on the circuit. The man with the golden voice would again be the best—better than the best in fact, because now Jermaine would have the added advantage of the comeback factor. Everyone loved seeing heroes make a comeback.

  CANDACE HAD NOT been to church in what seemed like ages. And as she parked her car in the lot of the large non-denominational church she had once called home during her college years at Rice, she was suddenly overcome with regret. How long had it been since she had been here last?

  Too, too long . . .

  She had used, of course, the convenient excuses of always being too busy to have time to go to church. After all, she was on the fast track for the Pulitzer, wasn’t she? And after such a prestigious award was in her coffers perhaps she would enjoy a few writing fellowships abroad, guest lecturing at universities worldwide. She could dreamily and realistically envision herself as a younger version of Maya Angelou.

  Career, career, career . . . that tunnel-vision line of thinking had cost her one relationship after the other, but she hadn’t cared at the time. Amazing how success had blinded her to the things and people that mattered most.

  Upon entering the sanctuary, Candace was greeted warmly and lovingly by numerous church members radiating an unconditional love and acceptance that she had almost forgotten existed. Here, she did not have to wear her ultra-feminine, successful businesswoman façade. She could simply be Candace Clark—Harold and Analee’s little wide-eyed, loving girl. What a relief that was!

  Oh, it feels so good to be back . . .

  She found herself easily giving over to the Spirit as the service began, opening in radical praise and worship with the music of Fred Hammond’s “Let the Praise Begin.” And though Candace did not know any of the congregants seated around her, within minutes she found herself clapping and dancing right along with them—like she’d known them for years.

  As the song approached its popular chorus, the whole church sang out in wonderful unison and harmony. And Candace was certainly ready for both her blessing and her miracle. Her heart was now softened, due to an increase in her prayers over the last few weeks. She directly attributed her praying to the media’s bloodthirsty rush to tarnish her name and reputation. When she was humbled and broken, it had seemed as though the only place she could find solace and comfort was on her knees in prayer. Prayer to the God whom her own daddy was seeking yet again. To the God that her mother Analee had communed with every night before she had lain down to rest.

  And this God—her heavenly Father who had become the one source of comfort and refuge for Candace during the most difficult time in her life—drew His arms around her and tenderly welcomed her back to Him. Back to His unconditional and forgiving love.

  Chapter twenty-seven

  THE NIGHTMARE WAS beginning to change. At the point where he normally would begin gasping for breath and would
seem about to collapse on the stage, for the first time Jermaine was now hearing a loud voice emanating from the crowd.

  “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being.”

  Jermaine awoke to sweat-soaked sheets again as the dream abruptly ended, but instead of feeling the usual gripping fear, he was filled with . . . with a strange, almost unnatural sense of peace.

  The breath of life . . . inspire . . . a living being . . .

  There was enough strength in his lower body and legs for him to now raise himself out of the bed. With great effort he did so, carefully lowering himself into the wheelchair. Seconds later he was at Ambrose’s room, knocking softly on the door. Exactly why he was there he did not know, only that he felt like talking with someone. And he knew Ambrose didn’t sleep at night—for all the time Jermaine had been here, the man had stayed up every night pacing the floor and reciting his scriptures.

  At the sight of Jermaine, Ambrose halted his pacing, but he seemed not surprised at all to see his celebrity hallmate. In fact, if Jermaine hadn’t known any better, it was almost as if Ambrose had expected this visit.

  “Couldn’t sleep, Jermaine?”

  Jermaine wearily nodded. “I’m going crazy with this nightmare. I’ve forgotten what it ever felt like to have a good night’s sleep.”

  Ambrose sat down on his bed. “I can relate to that. Though I feel my own restlessness is purely by choice, unlike yours. Still I believe I can help. I know a way to make you completely free of the hold this obviously has on you.”

  Jermaine studied the old man for a moment. It was hard to think of the guy as anything but crazy (they were in a state hospital, after all), but sometimes it actually seemed as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. And Jermaine desperately needed—craved, even—to just once be able to lay down and enjoy the simple pleasure of a good rest.

  What have I got to lose? “Let me get this straight. You’re saying you can take away the nightmares I’ve been having?”

  “As I have already told you, God Himself may be just trying to arrest your attention through these dreams. Their purpose may be similar to that of Moses’ burning bush.”

  “Moses’ what?”

  The old man chuckled. “Just a biblical example. My point is, after you take the time to listen to what God is saying to you, there will be no need for terrorizing dreams to keep you awake.”

  Jermaine pondered that statement for a moment. “I gotta admit that in a weird, religious sort of way, your suggestion actually makes sense.” He rolled farther into the room, closer to Ambrose. “So what do I have to do?”

  “Nothing, really. Just let me pray for you.”

  “Bet you’ve been waiting to do that ever since I got here,” Jermaine said with a nervous laugh. “Just don’t put a curse on me, preacher man.”

  Ambrose smiled. “Actually, I’m going to do the opposite and speak forth the blessings to come over your life.” He stood up and walked over to the wheelchair, placing his hand on the star speaker’s forehead.

  Jermaine felt like he should close his eyes or something. When was the last time I’ve done this? He vaguely remembered Aunt Bell making one of her tear-jerking, highly emotional pleas to God over him when he had graduated from Howard and made the cross-country move to Los Angeles. But that had been years ago.

  “My Father and my God,” Ambrose began, “it is an honor to come before You once again. This time I am making petition on behalf of someone I know You have been longing to establish a relationship with. For You have given this man a great gift—an ability to motivate the hearts and minds of people all across the world. But the greater gift still lies beyond his understanding. So now, Lord, I simply ask that You reveal that greater gift unto Him. Soften his heart, dear Father, and breathe into him Your abundant life. Reveal unto him such holy, divine inspiration that will transform not only him, but the lives of millions of others who will listen to the words he speaks. Let Your purpose for his life come to pass. Inspire him, my Father, as only You can. And when he is converted, allow his testimony to impact the nations for Your glory! In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Jermaine blinked a couple of times, slightly confused. “Th-that’s it? But you didn’t even mention the dream I’ve been having. I didn’t need to hear that soften his heart stuff and inspire him, dear Father and all that. I hate to tell you this, old man, but you may have just wasted your time.”

  “Oh no, no. Communing with the Father is anything but a waste of time, my son. I may be locked up here in this hospital, but let me tell you something—my prayers reach Heaven, Jermaine.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Are we done here?”

  Ambrose nodded. “Yes. For the moment, we are done.”

  “You still holding to your theory that my nightmares are over?”

  “I am. And it is not just a theory. When you return to your room and fall back asleep, you will discover exactly just what I am talking about. Have faith, Jermaine.”

  Jermaine highly doubted that he would have faith, but if anything he hoped the old man’s crazy religion, like a wish granted from a genie, was at least good for an uneventful and undisturbed night’s rest.

  THE DREAM CREPT back into his mind yet again while he slept. But for the first time ever, the jam-packed crowd was not wildly and raucously chanting his name. Instead, they remained in their seats, respectfully creating a hushed-like anticipation that actually seemed greater in multiplied effect than if they had been screaming at the top of their lungs. And for a long while Jermaine sat, observing and thoroughly absorbing the entire atmosphere. Then with not so much as the faintest tremor in his knees, he stood and made his way to the podium at center stage. Looking out among the sea of faces he paused for a few seconds, experiencing the adrenaline surge he always felt just before he was to publicly speak. But this time, the rush felt infinitely greater than he had ever remembered. A deluge of unbridled energy passed through his very being, so amazingly dazzling that for a moment he thought he might pass out from the sheer ecstasy.

  “This, Jermaine Hill, is true joy unspeakable and full of glory . . .”

  What! Where had that voice come from? Its firm, yet still soothing tone was tremendously comforting, like the sound of many rushing waters. Like the voice of a . . . well, like the voice of a . . . father. Straining to hear the words once more he was, to his disappointment, met with absolute silence. He opened his mouth then, not knowing if he would even be able to speak and likewise unsure of what he indeed might say. And he uttered the first thing that, quite shockingly, came to his mind.

  “In Him was life and the life was the light of men.”

  What! What in the world am I saying? It was as if he was undergoing an out-of-body experience, his mouth opening and voice speaking but the language and vocabulary coming forth was unlike anything he had ever spoken.

  “I have come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly. And this is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.” As he spoke these words, the crowd began to buzz, excitedly whispering among themselves.

  It was then that Jermaine awoke, but this time his sheets were not sweat soaked, nor was his heart rapidly palpitating in his chest. And equally strange, there were no more feelings of fear gripping his mind as they used to when his dreams ended. Instead, there was a . . . peace. Such an awesome peace that he had never before felt in all his life.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered, his voice slightly laced with reverential awe. Had . . . had crazy old Ambrose been right about this whole God thing? About his God supposedly revealing unto Jermaine a much greater gift?

  But the old man is locked up in a state hospital, remember? Then again, so was he. And did that little fact make him crazy as well? Did jumping off a cliff and attempting to take his own life make him even more crazy?

  But what about the greater gift? Jermaine recalled
the dream he had just experienced. By no means had he felt terror, fear, or the other emotions typically associated with his recurring nightmare. No, instead he had felt such . . . such an overwhelming joy. And the comforting and loving voice he had heard—had that been real or simply a figment of his own imagination? Because if it was real, then it was, well . . . it was definitely something he wanted.

  “Is there a greater gift?” he asked out loud, feeling just a little foolish for doing so. Just who, exactly, was he talking to?

  Though no audible voice answered him, deep within his heart, he heard the words as clear and real as if the possessor of the voice were seated next to him on the bed.

  “He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit is saying . . . behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come into him, and will sup with him and he with me.”

  As in the dream, Jermaine felt the tingly energy once again begin to engulf his body, filling him with a warmth and love he did not even know existed.

  “H-how do I open the door?” Jermaine asked, not knowing that by simply asking such a question, he was in fact preparing his heart to receive the answer.

  “And you will seek me and find me, when you search for me with all of Your heart . . .”

  And then he knew, in both his spirit and his soul. As he accepted the greater gift of the Lord God breathing life into his very being, this inspirational speaker who had captivated and dazzled audiences all over the country understood for the first time what it truly meant to be . . . inspired.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  THE RINGING OF THE phone startled Bell because she didn’t receive many calls. Aside from the nurse who came to see her every day, she didn’t have that much contact with the outside world.