Don't Choke

The vision in my left eye was getting foggier by the minute.

“Oh no!” I thought as a couple of tears started dripping out of my left eye.

"Don't choke, Ashley. You have two more songs to sing and no time to cry.”

“Get yourself together!"

"What if your voice cracks at the mic?”

After a few minutes of worrying and trying to wipe away the tears, I decided it was pointless and just let them slowly trickle down my cheek.

I was sitting by the piano on the side of the church sanctuary while the son of a woman I’d never met shared one cherished memory after another about his mother.
I’ve cantored for many funerals—usually for strangers, so there’s little worry that I’ll get emotional and not be able to sing when I need to.

Today was no different.

Until the eulogy.

It was so heartfelt, conversational, and touching that by the end, I felt as though I knew this woman—a lady whose life was long and very different from my own, but who clearly loved and was deeply loved by many.

What struck me most was the thread of contentment that ran through his memories of her: her marriage, her family, her favorite activities, her community.

These days, we’re constantly encouraged to reach for more. But if we never pause to enjoy what we have now, what is it all for?

As her son wrapped up his speech, you could hear a chorus of sniffles throughout the congregation.

And then it was time for me to step up to the mic and sing.

Could I?

Thankfully, yes.

I can think of a few very public instances in my singing career when I’ve been grateful for waterproof eyeliner.

Today was one of them.

But I walked out of that church with a new perspective on ambition—and a renewed determination not to let the joys of the future get in the way of the joys of the now.

With gratitude,
​
Ashley