Didn't We Almost Have It All, by Whitney Houston

Didn't We Almost Have It All

“Every last one, Patrice!”

“I can’t have grey hair and sing on the Grammys®,” she said vainly.

The pungent scent of alcohol filled the air around the stylist chair, but Patrice worked on Shelby even though disgusted with her. Sometimes Shelby would rummage around in her over-sized drawstring hobo purse, extracting various bottles of potent medications such as Valium and Xanax, popping them like vitamins.

Watching the precipitous slide into destruction was sad, but how often does a hairdresser get to work on “The Voice?” It had been ten years now; she would call and come down with her dwindling entourage to this crumbling L.A. neighborhood which strangely reflected Shelby Austin; it too had seen better days.

“Girl, I don’t know how I am going to sing on Sunday night,” Shelby said. “I'm not the force I used to be, getting old is such a bitch!” “Do what you gotta do, Patrice; and so will I?!” Ironically, Patrice assumed what she meant was they both relied on chemicals to disguise the truth about this superstar.

Shelby followed fame’s path where it inevitably leads when you become what you worship. Worldly things she pursued were not to blame, not even her former husband Gerri Green, who turned her onto the lifestyle that had ravaged her talent and beauty. Shelby’s demise was her own fault. It was a heart issue, and Shelby had done it to herself. When you gaze in awe, admiration, and wonder at something, or someone, you begin to take on something of the character of the object of your worship. (N. T. Wright)

In her heart, the idols ultimately disappointed her, and far from being obedient to the God of her youth, she clung to youth itself, as Patrice knew firsthand.

Past glory could not hold the weight of Shelby’s expectations. Her pursuit of the way it used to be: the look, the voice, the man, the parties, the fame, all that went with selling 200 million records; she was sure that the outcome would have, should have, been different than it turned out to be.

She was a celebrity of the highest order with all the accoutrements, and an equal amount of delusion. Shelby made lifestyle choices, formed alliances with people, and exploited connections which did not work out best for her career. At the same time her production did not keep up with her expenses, and the harsh reality was that she was so broke she would have to save up to be poor. Patrice only took cash.

The facts were clear, she was “washed-up” and wrung out; Shelby Austin was a shell of her former self, which was one of the biggest pop icons that the 80s and 90s ever produced.

Now, an addict, a burden, bitter about her divorce, her descent, and subconsciously bitter about her dereliction of the greatest singing talent that God ever gave to a woman born in the 1960s, Shelby was suffering. However, real suffering is not the same as sadness over lost expectations. Shelby was a victim of many things, but most of all she was a victim of her own attempts to cure herself of lost youth.

“Those who worship money become, eventually, human calculating machines,” said N. T Wright, “Those who worship power become more ruthless.” Ultimately, starlets who worship their younger success become zombies walking through a drugged reenactment of yesteryear. Anna-Nicole Smith had none of the talent of Shelby Austin, Amy Winehouse was a good singer but not like Shelby was good, and Heath Ledger was a pretty-boy but not as beautiful. She had it all, and when her music came on, people got up to dance.

Patrice did the best she could.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[part I of a fictional series]

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet?

Do fish complain of the sea for being wet? C.S. Lewis asks, “How is it that we don’t feel at home here (on earth)?” If fish did, would it not suggest that they had not always been or would not always be purely aquatic creatures? Maybe then, it can be argued that there is something in us that is not temporal? As it is we are perpetually surprised by Time (How time flies, I can’t believe how old Johnny has gotten, you mean Jenny is all grown up and married?).

Divine immanence means that God is here, wherever we are, God is here. There is nowhere, there can be no place, where He is not. However, even as I write this, I cannot be omniscient, only God is everywhere; He is nearer than my own soul, closer than my most secret thoughts. Nothing I could share in writing a blog can approach all that He knows about me. It depends on my spiritual receptivity, not time. The scientific man explains and examines; the spiritual man worships and adores.

Are we not like the fish uncomfortable in the sea? What we see, hear, and feel is the reality of living in this world; however, we intrinsically know and want the eternity of heaven which is our spiritual home. The inner restlessness of a thoughtful man is that nagging truth that there is something more than this!? The dark night of the soul, the doubts, fears, and anxiety when the world closes in on us, is a powerful reality. Although, is there not an eternal world that comes alive when we begin to reckon upon its reality?

God and the spiritual realms are real, just as much a part of the world as the physical; the trouble is that I have established bad habits, sin clouds my lenses, ignoring the spiritual. There must be a shift from the seen to the unseen, from physical to other-worldly. God dwells in the world, but there is a gulf between this and the other side of it which is impassable; and for now while I am stuck here. The essence of being a christian requires I listen, see, and believe God’s redemptive revelation in Scripture, just as much as what I get from the "real" world.

No one should fear the voice of God. Even though modern "church life" seems filled with noise, activity, bluster; when caught in a tempest as I was last night, the best advice seems to me: “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Ps 46:10) Doesn’t this mean that our strength and safety lie not in noise but silence?

Last night lying in bed, I carried an inner burden. A.W. Tozer calls it “the burden of pride.” Don’t we all carry the burden, continually, challenging every word spoken against us, cringing under every criticism, smarting under each fancied slight, tossing and turning if someone else is rising above us on the corporate ladder?

The meek man is not a weak mouse afflicted with his own inferiority, instead he knows he is as mortal and helpless as God declared us to be; at the same time, he knows that God’s power is alive in him, content with God’s values in place of the worlds. Emptying myself of prideful anxiety and filling myself with the confidence of God’s work is not an easy task. All I could do last night was pray for help! It is a helpless place to be, wringing out worry like a dish towel. Doubt and fear crept around like late-night ghosts.

Wanting to appear as better than we really are is the pretense upon which so much advertising is based. Many bright people are insecure, fearing they might assessed as “common,” be out of fashion, or say something stupid. Even Christians live artificial lives often as unnatural and sad as anything in popular pagan culture. But Jesus tells us to become like little children, truly worshipping God on our knees. This surrender pleases him, it's a necessary meekness in a narcissistic world.

Because of my restlessness last night I come to him today seeking rest, praying for the blessed relief which comes when we accept ourselves for what we are, and stop the pretense of being what we are not. I look at the beautiful blue sky of this winter day and give praise and thanksgiving, all to God’s glory, in faith. Faith is not a one time act, but a continuous dependence and gaze upon the heart of God. Passing through the darkness, redirecting my vision into God’s focus, this is a purifying faith. I hope you can find it also today.

©Mark H. Pillsbury