The Whitney I Knew (21 page)

At the time of Ronald's passing, my entire family gathered to remember him. He and I were closer than close—he was my best friend. And it was a time of hurt and unspeakable pain. How do you cope with losing your brother and best friend in one tragic moment?

The bond shared by my family runs deep. Losing Ronald made that bond quiver.

On the day of Ronald's funeral I ascended the stage to speak about my brother. I had just finished singing “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton, adding some lyrics to personalize it in Ronald's remembrance. I was in mid-sentence, speaking from the heart about what my brother meant to me, when the door opened.

In she walked. Or burst, rather. She blew in with the Detroit wind, waving her hands and shouting, “Family! I'm here, family!”

Oh, Whitney. Are you kidding me? Lord, here she comes
, I thought.

But that's who she was. The family bond quivered all the way to her heart, and there she was—oblivious to social protocol, focused on Ronald . . . and on us.

It wasn't Whitney wanting to grab the stage. It was my gospel-music sister wanting us all to know that the family was accounted for and that she was there to grieve. She was there to celebrate Ronald's life. She was there to sing.

Singing would ease the pain. Singing would heal. Singing would . . . well, it would do what normal words could not do.

Whitney knew that. She lived it. She embodied it.

“Family! Family, I'm here, family!”

Yes, Whitney. You're here.
Be
here.

When I think of how young and full of life Whitney was,
it kills me that she has passed.
BeBe

After my brother Ronald passed, I saw a grief counselor. When Whitney died, I remembered what the grief counselor, Marilyn, told me: “Singers and artistic people tend to love deeper than most people.”

Now that's not to minimize other people's love; it's just acknowledging the simple fact that people who make their living by delving into their emotions tend to react to hurt, pain, and loss in a more visceral way. That understanding gave me freedom in
grieving for my brother. I didn't suppress thoughts and memories; I let them come.

But grief can be tricky. It can place you on its island. Next thing you know, you're keeping to yourself all the time and not expressing your grief to the ones you love.

Marilyn said that we in the West get it wrong. When she lived in East Africa, the community would come together and sit with one another—the whole community—and just
be
when someone suffered a loss. Sitting there. When the grieving one cried, the village cried with him or her.

Sitting in a pew at Whitney's funeral, about to take the stage, it struck me how this must have been what it was like in East Africa. Whitney's community had gathered—in a church, no less—to cry and remember together. I felt like, finally, we were getting it right. Not just within that sanctuary, but even beyond those church walls. I just wish it hadn't taken her death for us to do so.

There's no question that death shows us who knew us and who our loved ones are. It shows us who we touched and who we alienated. Unless you're Whitney Houston. Then the world converges and mourns your talent more than you the person.

Most of the world only saw glimpses of Whitney, but I was so thankful for the list of people who spoke at the funeral, because the real Whitney could—at least for the briefest of moments—be seen by everyone. And that's interesting, because Whitney wasn't just a diva songstress who blew the doors off the pop music world. She was a quirky woman with a little-girl gleam in her eye. That same
kind of gleam you see in a child when they know they're up to something mischievous.

Spending Easter Sunday with Cissy after Whitney's death was something special and private. We attended church; Cissy sang; a choir accompanied her, as did another vocalist. I sat in the pew and listened. To a gospel legend sing? Sure. But more than that, I heard a grieving mother sing of hope, of faith, and the blessings of God.

Cissy and Bobbi Kris knew Whitney best. I like to think I knew her well. Still, you and I only know those closest to us as much as they are willing to let us in.

Spending time together is necessary if we are to disclose our true selves. But we must go farther still. We must let our guard down and live in a way that invites people to know us. Fear can't exist in our truest relationships. Love casts out fear; love empowers us to be confident. And confident relationships breathe life into us.

My relationship with Whitney was a breath of life. We spent real time together. And when I say
real
, you may be thinking,
Well, what other kind of time is there?
What I mean by
real
time is the kind of time where the point of being together was encouragement and fun.

As I said at the beginning of this book, I saw Whitney relax. I saw her cry. I saw her nervous. It's those authentic glimpses, shared in everyday moments, that move us toward deep and abiding love.

A friend of mine once told me that to abide means to wait on those we love, like a serviceman who leaves his wife to go to war. The wife abides in his love—she waits for him. And all the while, their love grows.

I think of my kids and how I want my love to be an abiding kind
of love. The kind of love that is patient with them and that nourishes them as they grow up and go out into the world.

This is the kind of love we need to cultivate in our relationships with our friends too. An abiding kind of love in a friendship builds a foundation of trust and loyalty, of solidarity and honor. Maybe this is what Cissy was referring to when she said—upon hearing that I was writing this book—that I
knew
Whitney. Maybe she was saying that her daughter and I enjoyed mutual trust and loyalty—a friendship-kind-of-love that picked up where it left off when proximity and fame made real-life hang-out time difficult.

Now that we are in this long season of grief, I want to lovingly abide in my remembrance of my sister Whitney—and in my love for the family she left behind.

In America, we think we have to say something when death comes. But it's not about us; it's about the person experiencing the loss. And when we lose someone who is younger, like Whitney, it makes it that much harder.

People say things like, “She died too soon,” or “What a waste of life and talent.” But grief brings with it the muck of life, and because of who Whitney was, our culture believes it's necessary to sift through the cause of death, to dredge up her history and her mistakes. All this dredging can make it more difficult for those who were close to her to get through the muck.

Grieving people need the community—their friends, acquaintances, family—to use fewer words and to give more time so that the bereaved will not be alone. We think it's about a funeral service and a nice card and then life goes on. Life might go on, but words dry up. Loving actions, however, remain.

Grieving Whitney has been rough. But let's not forget those in her immediate family. It's Bobbi Kristina who needs our love and prayer support right now. It's her mother and brothers who need lifted up by the community. Because they have suffered this loss most of all.

It was singing that made us feel closer to her. . . .
It was singing that helped us embrace the pain. . . . And so, we sang.
BeBe, speaking of his and CeCe's tribute at the funeral

In 1997, Bill and Camille Cosby lost their son, Ennis, in an act of senseless violence. Some time later, Oprah Winfrey sat with Camille for an interview. In their candid exchange, Camille told Oprah what one of her dear friends, a psychiatrist, had said to her. It might sound a bit harsh coming from a friend, but it was what she needed to hear: “Camille, you are going to have to go through the pain. It's the only way you are going to heal. Go through the pain.”

Going through or
embracing
the pain helped Camille cope and stay focused on life amid such a time of deep sadness. I'm following the same advice by writing this book.

In a very real way, this book helps me embrace the pain of losing such a close friend. Embracing the pain helps me work through my feelings—hopefully to emerge on the other side of it all, better equipped to say good-bye even though I'd rather not. This book has served as my therapy.