Miles wasn’t a bass player.
He wasn’t anything close to a bass player.
In fact, up until the beginning of his senior year in high school, he hadn’t so much as touched a bass guitar.

Here’s what happened.

I’m standing in the hallway at his school, waiting for a meeting to start, when I bumped into Mrs. Cox.
We’re talking about the upcoming year, the new faces, the changes.
She mentions, almost in passing, that they’ve got plenty of piano players this time around.
Drummers? Check.
Guitarists? Check.
Bass players?
Nothing.
Nobody.

I said, “You want one?”

She looked at me like I’d just offered her a glass of tap water in the middle of the desert.
“What do you mean?”

I asked again, “Do you want a bass player?”

She laughed.
I didn’t.

Because what I knew was that if you understand music, picking up a new instrument isn’t a moonshot.
It’s a translation.
Different words, same language.

Up until then, Miles had been the piano player for the school’s band.
One instrument, every chapel, every event.
But now, with new students coming in, it was time to pass the baton.
Time to make room.
Time to grow.

I told her, “If you need a bass player, I’ll teach Miles. I’ll have him ready for chapel in a week and a half.”

Mrs. Cox graciously gave me a nod and said, “Okay.”

Miles didn’t even know yet what I had just signed him up for.

Later that evening, I told him.
He barely blinked.
He was on board immediately.

I still don’t know if he agreed because he was excited to learn something new…
or because he was about to get a new toy.

Either way, that night, Miles and I drove to Guitar Center.
We picked out a bass.
We picked out an amp.
We drove home, unboxed everything on the pool house floor, and got to work.

For the next 90 minutes, I threw everything I knew at him—chords, rhythm, structure, flow.
How the bass isn’t there to show off.
It’s there to hold the whole thing together.

I gave him the foundation.
The rest? He built himself.

He practiced until his fingers hurt.
He stayed up late, learning songs for chapels that were just around the corner.
And on his own, he found a mentor—Jay, a bassist at our church.
Jay didn’t charge him a dime.
He just asked for effort.
And Miles gave it.

Fast forward.

Last night, we sat in the auditorium at Nelson and watched Miles play—not just competently, but confidently.
Not just following the band, but leading in it.
He wasn’t just filling space.
He was setting the tone.

And this summer, he’ll travel the country with a college worship band, playing in churches coast to coast—making music that started with nothing more than a need, and a willingness to step into it.

And here’s the thing:

Life doesn’t always tap you on the shoulder and announce your moment.
Sometimes it whispers.
Sometimes it shows up as a gap that needs to be filled.

And if you’re willing to say yes before you feel ready,
before you have it all figured out,
before you’re sure you can even do it,
you just might find yourself standing exactly where you were meant to be all along.