The Whitney I Knew (6 page)

I think Whitney would have loved to sing and say something at her funeral. She loved being in church. There she found Jesus, and there she stepped into her calling, singing the gospel numbers like her own lifelong doxology.

That night in Detroit when I first met her, I knew she would have to walk out of the church and into the world. She had a job to do—to let the people hear what church sounds like; let the people hear what God sounds like. Ironically, I think the world got a sampling of that at her funeral. At her church.

What does God sound like? Whitney singing the high-soprano line in a song? Well, maybe. But in all seriousness, I think God sounds like the gift he's given to each one of us. We're free to use our gifts in any way we see fit, but God's plan for those gifts—his desire for those gifts—is for you and I to return them to him by using them, and then by giving him the honor he is due. I also think we honor him with our gifts when we employ them to show compassion to the less fortunate—by serving the impoverished and feeding the hungry, as Whitney did so many times through her charitable work and appearances. Many people don't know that she formed the Whitney Houston Foundation for Children and also supported the United Negro Fund, the Children's Diabetes Foundation, St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital, and various other causes.

Famous or not, when we use our gifts for God's glory, we accomplish something amazing: we change the world's view of what love looks like, of what love is. The Bible says that love is patient; it is kind; it gives sacrificially. In my mind, such resounding love is exactly what God sounds like.

Oh, this looks like something in my brother's house. Does this belong to you?
Whitney

Early in my relationship with Whitney, she invited CeCe and me to her crazy-beautiful home in New Jersey for lunch. She didn't care too much that it would mean booking a flight up the Atlantic Coast for us (we lived in Nashville).

Little did we know then that Whitney asking us to “come over” for something like lunch would become a common occurrence.

Whitney's Aunt Bae—her dad's sister—worked her magic in that amazing kitchen and whipped us up some fine home cooking. And at the lunch, Whitney announced: “Okay, we're makin' a pact.”
I'd never made a pact before, so I didn't know what she was talking about. “Y'all promise me that we'll be there for each other through it all; that we'll remain
family
, and that we'll be with each other, no matter what,” she said, her eyes gleaming and intense.

It was like wedding vows—“till death do us part”—or a scene in a movie where a bunch of kids cut their hands, shake, and become blood brothers or sisters. Basically, The Pact was this: we made a solemn promise to one another that we'd always remain close and that, more specifically, we wouldn't make any life-altering decisions—like getting married or signing a big contract or other career-type stuff—without consulting one another. Nothing was to happen without everyone being involved. That was the deal.

We didn't draw blood that day, but we were serious about The Pact. Nothing would be off the table or off limits, not even family. It was understood that we would talk about everything and anything. No subject was too big or too small; fear would have no place in our relationship. The Pact made it so.

Before the trip, CeCe and I had wondered: why this invitation to fly in just to have lunch and hang out at Whitney's? Now we knew. The Pact was the reason. The Pact and . . . to spend time together like families do.

I remember CeCe was a bit tentative about going, but I told her we should do it—and we were grateful for our decision to go. Because that day The Pact was born, and so was a forever kinship.

At the end of our time together that day, Whitney cried. So did we.

She didn't want us to leave. We didn't want to leave.

The whole experience was overwhelming.

It was so much more than a simple lunch. And so much more than a great meal with the biggest superstar in the world at her
house. It was true family time while the three of us sat around like kids on summer vacation—just hanging out and talking about life and dreams and what was coming next.

I confess, at first I had to contain myself at being treated by this singer, who I was such a fan of, in this incredible house. It was huge and spacious, lived in and warm—just like Whitney. But the day certainly wasn't all serious either. Whitney showed us around her sprawling home, and when we got to the garage, there was an enormous stash of Diet Coke. As an avid Diet Coke drinker, I'll never forget it! Yet I never, ever saw Whitney drink even one!

Fly in for lunch
. It makes me laugh to think that, on a whim, we flew up there to eat. I couldn't believe how much she desired to be close. That's how she drew us in; that's how she drew others in. She spent time, precious time, being with the people she loved.

I'm sure you've done something in your life that you know was “meant to be.” That's how I felt on the flight home that evening: like we had experienced something that God had ordained for us. To think that I had gone from hearing an unnamed gifted singer in a cab to this—to becoming family with this person—was hard to grasp. If you'd told me in that cab that I'd soon find out so much more about this singer than just who belted out the lyrics, I would have laughed at you.

But it was meant to be. God made it so. And that's what makes it so special to me now. God ordained our relationship, and under his plan, so much in life materializes and is set in motion. Nothing, I've found, is so big that it falls outside of his plan. Not even death.

That cab ride changed my life. It set me on a trajectory that flew me straight into Whitney's life.

God orchestrates our lives for a specific reason. There's purpose behind every event. I'm convinced that even the bad times in life carry meaning, if only to show us that we need others to help us carry on or to show us that though God allows grief, he also demonstrates compassion through his steady, unfailing love.

The Pact was sealed on that day in New Jersey. Yet it wasn't so rigid that we didn't give each other the space we needed. From time to time I'd remind Whitney, “If you need to talk to me, let's talk.”

“I know, I know,” she'd say.

She knew the relationship was there; she had access to our friendship whenever she needed it. But I also didn't push or hold The Pact over her head like an obligation. To truly love someone means not pushing if you don't need to. To love is to listen. That idea was so powerful to me when I learned it from a friend, and I wanted to be that kind of friend for Whitney. She knew she could always talk to me, and boy—did she ever!

Our conversations covered the map—literally and figuratively: We talked about where she was when she was traveling overseas. We'd debrief about concerts. She'd tell me how much she missed home and wanted to be near her friends and family. She'd talk about personal battles too—whatever she was struggling with at the moment. She'd talk to me about songs, ask about my writing experiences and where I got inspiration . . . things like that.

Sometimes she'd talk so much, it spun my head around. Anyone who was close to her will likely tell you the same: the girl loved to talk, till all hours of the morning even, like a kid on a sleepover. One time she called me from Hong Kong and we talked for four hours! I
told her, “If they make a mistake and charge my phone, I'm going to be homeless. Because I can't pay that bill!”

“Boy,” she said, “they ain't gonna charge you.”

“Okay,” I countered, “but if I get a bill, it's coming straight to you.”

That's what she needed, though. She needed an ear to listen. She needed a quiet spirit with which to abide. I tried to be that for her when I could, because I knew that if I listened to Whitney, she would interpret that as me loving her.
To love is to listen
.

One of the great things about Whitney, though, was that friendship wasn't just a one-way street. Just like she said in The Pact, it was about us being there
for each other
.

I learned early on that sometimes people do things for others for mere bragging rights. You know the type—that person who likes to help so they can tell someone about it? Well, Whitney was different in that way. For Whitney, once you were family . . . hold on!

One day in 1989, she called and told me to pick her up from the airport—she was just dropping by like she did from time to time. My wife and I were living in a one-bedroom apartment back then, and we offered Whitney the bedroom, but she opted for the couch.

The next morning a friend came by to pick me up, and as I was trying to slip out of the apartment without waking her, the sun broke through and she lifted up off the couch with her hair going in every direction.

Keep in mind, this was when she was becoming
the
Whitney Houston—with seven consecutive number-one Billboard hits, including, “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me).” I started laughing and said, “If the world could see you right now, I don't
think they would
want or choose
to dance with ‘somebody.' ” We both chuckled.

Then she inquired, “Where you goin'?”

“I just have to run out quick.”

“Well, when you getting back?”

“I don't know; I won't be long. Why?”

“Get back here soon. I want to see this house you're lookin' at.”

She knew that I was thinking of buying a house—my first house. She was determined to see it.

Just like everybody else, I longed to live the American dream and own my own house. But I was already starting with the odds stacked against me. I didn't have much credit, and I was a musician. Banks don't look too fondly upon musicians. We're high-risk—which is an easy excuse for them to say no.

Getting a loan would be an uphill battle, I knew, but I was more than willing to fight this battle.

From our previous conversations, Whitney also knew the bank had decided at the last minute to change the amount of the down payment I needed on the house I'd picked out. At first they told me that, if approved, I would need $25,000 for the down payment. But then, after I was approved, they changed the amount to $75,000. I was caught off guard and had no way of obtaining that kind of money on such short notice.

When I returned to the apartment, Whitney kept talking about how her purse was bothering her—and she'd been doing so ever since I'd picked her up at the airport. She was also unrelenting about seeing the house, so finally I drove her over to the place. As we walked through it, Whitney wouldn't stop talking and acting funny. When we walked into a room, she'd comment, “Oh, this looks like
something in my brother's house. Does this belong to you?” In the hallway she'd say, “Oh, BeBe, look at this staircase! It's beautiful. It looks just like my brother's staircase.”