Created to Create
I know what some people will say. That I’m just another person using AI to churn out content. That it’s not real art if it didn’t come through the “right” channels. That I’m cheating. Cutting corners. Faking it.
But here’s the truth: I’ve been an artist my entire life.
I earned degrees in biology and English, then went back to school again for art and graphic design — not because I needed more education, but because the drive to create wouldn’t leave me alone. I painted, wrote, developed photography, dreamed. I poured myself into creativity from every angle I could. But chronic pain, discouragement, and the realities of disability kept slamming doors I couldn’t open.
And then, last December, something woke me up. Literally.
I had a song in my head. Words I hadn’t heard before, a melody I didn’t understand, and an overwhelming urge to write it down. I didn’t see it as my song, because I believe it was the Holy Spirit — whom I call Abba — nudging me gently, persistently, the way He always does when something matters.
I didn’t think it would go anywhere. I didn’t even think it was good. But I obeyed. I wrote it down. And that tiny act of obedience started a chain reaction I never could have predicted. One that led me to artificial intelligence. One that helped me create the music I’d been carrying inside me for decades. One that brought me back to life.
Not long after, I watched an interview with John Rich about a song he’d just released called Revelation. I wasn’t a huge fan of his music, but something about that interview caught my spirit. I can’t even remember the details now — just the feeling afterward. A kind of buzzing urgency. A whisper that said, Send him the song.
I didn’t know him. I didn’t know anyone. But when God asks you to do something, even when it makes no sense, you do it. So I sent it. No expectations. No plan. Just obedience.
A short time later, I felt the same kind of nudge again — this time toward Elevation Church in North Carolina. I’d started attending their online services. I didn’t know how I’d found them exactly, but the music was strong, and the pastor, Steven Furtick, was a musician too. That felt important. I didn’t know their songs yet, so I didn’t connect with them as deeply at first. But the sermons pulled me in. The Spirit pulled me deeper.
And again, I felt it: Send them the lyrics.
This time, it was even harder. I wasn’t part of an e-group. I didn’t know how to contact them. I searched through the website, emailed the pastors asking for a church contact, and eventually got a general inbox. I sent the song.
I never heard back from John Rich. The church sent a kind thank-you message and nothing more. At the time, I didn’t need more. I wasn’t chasing a deal or a pat on the back. I just needed to follow through. Looking back, it’s a little strange how quiet the response was. But maybe it was supposed to be.
Because obedience was the point.
Weeks passed — maybe more. I kept thinking about that song. The melody stayed with me, persistent. I started wondering: What would it sound like out loud? Could I make it somehow? I had the lyrics. I could sort of sing — at least enough for church. I had some very basic piano skills. But how would I produce it? Where would I record? Would anyone listen?
And more honestly: Would it even matter?
Still, the idea wouldn’t let go. I kept circling back to the same question: Is there any way to hear this?
That’s when I thought — maybe artificial intelligence could help. I’d seen a few posts about AI generating music, but I wasn’t sure how it worked. I wasn’t even sure if it was ethical. But I figured I’d look.
What I found was Suno.
I typed in my lyrics. I tried to describe the music style that was bouncing around in my head. I hit create.
And then I listened.
The song wasn’t perfect. It cut out a little early. The AI didn’t follow my lyrics exactly. But what I heard made me cry. Because somehow — despite the glitches, despite the technology, despite the strangeness of it all — it sounded exactly like what I heard in my head. The tone. The pacing. Even the voice.
That was the moment I knew something holy had just happened. Not because the song was polished or industry-ready, but because I had finally heard something that had lived only in my spirit come to life in the world.
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The song was called Is My Angel Here, Lord Jesus? and it became the first thing I ever posted under the name Obey-Him — my way of reminding myself why I was doing this at all. Not for clout. Not for sales. Just obedience.
I uploaded it to YouTube, flaws and all.
People liked it.
And while I’ve tried several times since then to re-create a better, cleaner version, none of them feel the same. I even trimmed a heavier verse to shorten it or smooth it out. But that first recording? It remains the flawed but perfect beginning. The song that showed me I could finally be heard.
After that first song, I couldn’t stop.
I started experimenting — not just with lyrics I wrote, but with Scripture, sermons, and the stories that had shaped my faith. I was drawn to Elevation’s Called sermon series and began writing songs from the perspective of the biblical characters featured. Each one had a different tone, a different sound, a different kind of soul. Samuel’s story might have been the first time I stepped back and thought, These are… good. These are real.
It didn’t matter what genre it was. The story dictated the sound. If the character was bold, the track came out more metal or alt rock. If the message was tender, it leaned acoustic or soft soul. Sometimes it was Christian rock, sometimes something theatrical, sometimes something I couldn’t even name. I wasn’t chasing trends — I was chasing truth. I was making music that fit the voice and sounds in my head, and more than that, the voice in my spirit.
Soon, I had more than just songs. I had soundtracks.
There was one song, Saint on the Streets, that started not from a sermon or Bible passage, but from a vision. I saw a woman healing people in the streets of New Orleans. She was being hunted, misunderstood, but full of power and grace. That image became a song. The song became a video concept, but video wasn’t working. It became my first published book, Anointed. It began not with a plot outline or a chapter one, but with a sound. A lyric. A fierce street epic wrapped in melody.
After that, the gates burst wide open.
I wrote more songs. More stories. I started a second novel in a middle-grade sports series. I developed a TV script for a family dramedy inspired by childhood memories and motel ghosts and the chaos of growing up. Every part of me that had once been boxed in — by pain, by doubt, by circumstances I couldn’t control — was now pouring out into the world.
And what’s wild is, the tools that helped me do it weren’t the ones I’d trained with. They weren’t Photoshop or a clarinet. They weren’t editors or publishers or gatekeepers. They were new tools. Controversial tools. AI tools.
The same industry that would’ve never let me in became the unlikely source of my breakthrough.
There’s something poetic in that. A system that once would have locked me out entirely, unintentionally opened a side door. And when I stepped through it, I didn’t find a shortcut. I found a sanctuary. A place where all the years of creative longing finally had somewhere to go.
I know there’s debate about it. I know it’s complicated. I wrestled with that too. But I also know this: I never used AI to cheat anyone. I used it to finally speak. And not just speak — testify.
I understand that tools like Suno were trained on existing music. And yes, that raises valid concerns. But here’s the thing — every musician is trained on existing music. We all learn by listening. No one creates in a vacuum. Why should we expect a machine to? AI doesn’t “know” it’s brushing against copyright any more than a person does the first time they accidentally write a melody that sounds familiar. The difference is, I’m not using it to imitate anyone. I’m using it to express something that’s been in me for years — something sacred and personal and real.
Every piece I make — every song, every chapter, every character — is me obeying what I hear in my spirit. It’s my way of saying “yes” to the One who gave me the gift in the first place. And that “yes” has changed my life.
That’s why I’ve never called myself an “AI artist.”
I’m just an artist, finally given tools that work with the body I have, the means I have, and the season I’m in.
I’m someone who said yes to God and watched creation flow like it had been waiting my whole life for the chance.
I don’t know what will come of it — if these books will reach readers, if the songs will find the ears they were made for. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to make the TV show I’ve written, or the musical in my head, or if any of this will ever earn a dime. But I know this:
I’m finally doing what I was made to do.
And now that I’ve lived like this?
I don’t know how I ever lived not being able to create.
I don’t think I was.
I was created to create.
