It’s sad, isn’t it, that the fervor over Whitney Houston’s death burned out almost as quickly as it started. Not that I think everyone who proclaimed their life changing experience via Whitney really were all that changed. It is fun to jump on the nostalgia bus and jump right back off when it gets mired in mud of mundanity. Apparently, everyone is famous for 50,000 tweets. Most of those being snark.
And now is not the point that I jump on the “Whitney Houston changed my life” omnibus; however, I’m not jumping on her grave either. Clearly she had issues. Blame Bobby all you want, but Whitney brought her own baggage to the situation. Or curses. Or demons. Call them whatever you want, they are in some ways our modern day’s leprosy. Nobody wanted to go near her for fear of being infected.
Almost nobody anyway. Clearly, from her performance at her mother in law’s funeral, there was something there, some sort of relationship with the God she knew. (I love the fact that someone is videotaping the funeral with their cell phone. I also appreciate that it is in HD.) To have a relationship ipso facto means there are two parties. Somebody did not abandon Whitney, even if the rest of us were running like deer.