“I got bored of classical music. It became all the same thing,” my dad said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it, it’s just that it wasn’t, well, me.”

My little nine-year-old self couldn’t grasp this radical idea of not playing classical music. The thought was foreign to me. “So you pretty much just make it up when you play piano in church, Dad?” I asked with wonder and astonishment.

“You’re right, I just make it up.”

I was amazed. “But, Dad, how do you know which notes to play and which notes not to play?”

My dad said with a fatherly smile mixed with passion and pride, “You just know, kiddo.” He ruffled my hair with his giant hands. “You just know.”

My father is one of the greatest musicians I have ever known. That sounds extreme given that he lives in the time of Joshua Bell, Mariah Carey, and other great musicians. However, I am sure that there is no one else in this world that would come to the kitchen table in the morning wearing his Spongebob Squarepants boxers, carry a bowl of Cheerios in one hand and a lukewarm cup of coffee in the other, and lecture me on the circle of fifths. No, I am quite certain that there is no one else in this universe that would do that but my father.

My dad, ever since I could remember, has been the worship leader of my church. He quit this job about two years or so ago for more family time, but he still plays piano sometimes with the band. He’s not an amateur performer. Instead of sticking strictly to the notes written upon a page, he improvises. He makes it up as he goes along. He’s original. He’s a fantastic musician.

When he was the worship leader, he had me occasionally play violin with the band in church in front of everyone. I mostly played the melody along with the singers, and, to be completely honest, it sounded dead boring. I added nothing interesting to the service (now, keep in mind, I was about nine years old) and was just playing a boring groan of a melody. My brilliant father noticed this.

“Honey,” he said. He pulled me to the side of the church where the sun shined brightly through the colorful stained-glass windows. “Honey, you’re doing great, but-“

“But what?” I asked. I was not a very dedicated musician at the time and failed to see my own musical faults.

“Maybe you can try something new?” he said. “You know how I improvise?” I nodded my head, yes. “Maybe you can try that? Do you think you can?”

I secretly wanted to, but I knew I didn’t have the ability. I knew the technicality of it – I had been lectured about chords, modes, and key signatures since before I could remember – but I was also very shy and was terrified of messing up. “No,” I said boldly. “No, Dad, I can’t.”

“All right,” he said. “I won’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

So for about six years my playing was bland, boring, dull, and uninteresting. However, when I was fifteen, during the autumn of my sophomore year in high school, it happened.

I’m not quite sure if it came from me, or God, or some sort of muse, but wherever it came from, it was awesome.

I was playing violin in the church. I was also supposed to play violin during three other songs where the congregation would stand and they’d sing while I’d play the melody along with them (which sounded extremely boring). So the preacher said, “Please stand,” and the congregation stood, and I put my violin bow on my violin string, I knew the drill. I played. What I played was not boring.

Like I said, I don’t know where it came from, but unexpected, amazing, interesting music came from my violin. I was improvising. I could hear different versions of the music ringing in my ears and I placed my fingers in the correct place, and it all made sense. Then I tried the melody an octave higher, an octave lower. Then I played the harmony. Then I made up this random sixteenth-note riff that I had no idea where it came from, but it sounded so cool and beautiful, I just kept playing it over and over. I remember my dad smiling at me from the piano bench. It was one of the greatest feelings in the world.

Improvising music is like painting. One starts out with something simple like a blank sheet of white paper or a simple, easy church melody. Then one adds color to it. For a painting, a person adds literal color to the blank white to make a detailed work of art. For music, a person adds harmonies, octave changes, chromatics, riffs, sixteenth-notes, and dynamics to make beautiful, intricate sound. Once that sound is made, and there’s an original groove to that person’s improvising, that person kind of feels like the master of the universe. To be honest, that’s basically how I felt at that moment. I fell in love with improvising, and since that day my musical life had been drastically shifted.

I improvise at my church and at other places quite often now. I switched violin teachers and my violin teacher now specializes in violin improvising and violin jazz, which both sound kind of weird, but they’re actually really fun to learn. My teacher asked me to improvise for him once in class, and so I did, and he said I wasn’t too shabby, which, from him, is probably the biggest compliment I have ever received and will ever receive. He told me that I have a gift not many musicians have. Apparently the ability to improvise is extremely rare in musicians, especially violinists. He told me that I should not waste my gift.

Improvising has made me grow as an artist and has been such a great creative outlet for me. I truly believe that music speaks louder than words, and since I specifically don’t say many words, music is the perfect outlet for me. Improvising has also made me a better musician, and I am a better improviser because of my dad’s constant music theory lectures. If he had not taught me all that I knew, and if he had not continuously placed me up in front of the church congregation and told me to play violin, I never would have become the musician I am today.