The Whitney I Knew (17 page)

When I saw her give the Oprah interview, I became even angrier, not with her or with our friend Oprah, but with the industry. I knew that the media and the masses would take that interview and use it to sum up Whitney as a person, which to me was unfair. But that's what the industry does. In any way it can, it will try to sell you—whether it's an interview about your sex life or drug abuse or one of your songs. Doesn't matter. At some point, you cease to be a person. You represent dollar signs and your life seeps away; it becomes a transaction.

CeCe and I told Whitney that “if you can't sell an album because of your raw talent, then forget about them [industry people].” I didn't want her to do that
Good Morning America
show where she
sang in Central Park. Why? Because she had no voice. I wanted her to wait. But there again was that notion that drove Whitney—the notion to prove people wrong and to show she was in control.

She knew where I stood with it all. I loved her and wanted to see her succeed, but I wanted her to show up like the Whitney I knew her to be.

We did, however, get a kick out of the media's hype about her sudden “resurfacing,” as they called it. The
I Look to You
album was supposed to be her comeback? Where had she gone? The last time I'd checked, Whitney's record sales weren't in need of a comeback.

She told me, “This ain't no comeback. I ain't went nowhere.”

We laughed about it a bit, but that didn't take away her anger about the situation. It was almost as if she did those shows to tell the world, “I'm still here, and this is who I am.” But for those of us who really knew her, she had remained the same person all along.

It doesn't matter who you are, you don't want to hear bad things said about you. The irony of Whitney singing the line, “I look to you, after all my strength is gone,” on
Good Morning America
was that at this point in her career, she had lost much of her strength. Her voice was not what it once was because she was so run down and hadn't properly taken care of herself. She was not confident. Her performance that day in Central Park was fearful and tentative.

I hurt just watching her get through it. She wanted so badly to show everyone that she was still the same Whitney. But I don't think she needed to show us anything. I think time was working its healing magic. And we all need time, just to be ourselves.

During her seven-year hiatus from the music industry, I saw a Whitney who wanted to return to the simplicity of life before the stardom. And her desire to get back to a simpler life was really her wanting to get back to the joy of God.

You and I aren't much different than Whitney in this regard. We face tough times in life, and those trials challenge the core of who we are. If we are people of faith, difficulties challenge our faith. It's in those times that we cry out for God's help, and that's what Whitney was doing when things got crazy—when her marriage began to unravel and people began to reject her. She wanted out of the world's light so she could find peace again in God's light.

Whitney was a down-to-earth kind of girl—a jeans and T-shirt type of girl. When she became “Whitney Houston,” her life was not her life anymore. She was whisked away for years, around the world and back again. And I saw her—not the Whitney Houston the media portrayed, but the real Whitney—begin to wither under the stress of it all. Any celebrity will tell you that, in the thick of it, when you're making loads of cash and people wait on you hand and foot, it's good. For a time. But that time does not last. It can't; it's not sustainable.

After Whitney returned from her first trip to Paris, she told me she never really saw the city. She sang and she left. She passed through Paris because her schedule didn't allow a real visit. She was in the world, but not really
in
the world—so busy with the rigors of touring that she was either overbooked or too tired to do anything. Whitney had to sleep and stay in during the day to rest up for each night's concert, which included “meet and greets” after the show. I don't know who came up with that tradition, but for a performer to visit with fans after you've just given your heart and soul on stage wears you out. All
you want to do is go back to your bus or hotel and sleep as much as you can. Because at the next stop on the tour, the audience will want the same performer the last city got, and the one before that.

This is unimaginable to many of us. We fantasize about fame and fortune, but when it hits you the way it hit Whitney, it's a beast.

The Whitney we saw and heard in 2009 was a wounded woman. She said it herself for all the world to see: she wanted to return to the “joy”—that “peace that passes understanding”—because it alone fulfills.

Whitney was quoting Philippians 4:7 from the Bible. What's interesting about that verse is what precedes it. The previous verse says that we should not worry or be anxious about life. Instead, we should pray to God. Take refuge in him. He alone can calm our hearts and ease our fears and bring back our joy.

That's what Whitney desired. That's what she was trying to do. She was giving it all to God. She was waiting on him and taking refuge in him.

Though you can't explain this peace that is beyond human understanding, you sure can know when it's not in your life anymore. When your joy leaves, peace is hard to come by.

So much had built up in Whitney's life that she just needed to let go and cling to God. Clinging to God isn't some mystical thing. It simply means that we place our trust in him; that we go about our everyday life with him in mind, not the things the world throws at us. God promises that when we give him all our worry and anxieties, he will give us a peace we can't explain, a peace that will guide and enrich our lives.

My friend Luther Vandross used to call me as soon as he stepped off the stage . . . because it's lonely. When he or Whitney or any
performing artist steps off of the stage, they stand alone. The crowd has returned home and moved on with their lives. They've taken a piece of you with them, but you're standing there by yourself and the only thing you can think to do is call someone who knows you. That's what Luther would do, and that's what Whitney would do. She wanted to talk to her brother. Why? Because I cared about her. The real her.

Could she have called her label and told them that she was homesick and wanted to go home? No way! As long as you're making money hand over fist, you put your head down and move through your obligations. Only when you stop selling records and selling out stadiums will they leave you alone.

Those obligations and pressures never really ended for Whitney. She took herself out of that world instead.

As I listened to the other speakers at the funeral talk about Whitney, and as I listened to my brother Marvin preach about priorities, the inevitable question crossed my mind: Why am I here?

I wasn't supposed to be sitting at Whitney's funeral. I was supposed to be planning her fiftieth birthday. I was supposed to be catching up with her, listening to her stories about her life and career and her daughter.

I think it's always unfair when a young person passes. It's too early. In those circumstances, only God can answer why. But to me, Whitney was too young as well. Forty-eight is not old by any stretch. Her youthfulness and her amazing talent incited questions: “Why,
God, would you allow her to be taken from us
now
?” It's when I ask those questions that I'm reminded of humankind's brokenness: broken relationships, broken morality, broken health, broken governments—all stemming from broken people.

There aren't a lot of answers to “Why?” When I ask why, I'm reminded of the irony layered into the lyrics of “I Will Always Love You,” with its wishes for a gentle life and fulfilled dreams, happiness, and love most of all. Whitney's career afforded her wealth and fame beyond measure. Her dream of being a singer did bring her joy and happiness to a certain extent. But imperfect people stand at the controls in this life. The gatekeepers of the music and media empires will let you in if you have the talent. And if you're a born super-talent like Whitney was, they will push cash into your gift with little regard for the personal ramifications. But it all cost her something very dear: her privacy and the normalcy that the rest of us often take for granted.

Sometimes our dreams can lead us down a path we never thought we'd walk. They can deceive us into thinking we want something that wouldn't be so great for us after all. It makes me wonder what is really worthy of our dreams in this life.

I don't think it's wrong to desire prosperity or success. So don't hear me saying that you shouldn't dream to be like Whitney. Go ahead: Chase your dreams, and dream big. But be wise.

Jesus once advised that one should consider the cost before taking on a project—and he didn't just mean financially. The world will shower abundance upon you if and when you achieve your dreams, but it will also bury you with expectations and strip away the simplicity of your life.

Whitney missed that simplicity most of all. I think when she finally made it back into the public eye, she held her career and private life in good balance. She'd regained some of what she'd lost along the way and was pursuing the balancing elements that
really
make life worth living: family and faith.

The biggest devil is me. I'm either my best friend or my worst enemy.
Whitney