It was 1982. I was fresh out of the military, 24 years old, and in college. My whole life was ahead of me, but I couldn’t see it because of all the debt I had accrued, thanks to my cocaine addiction.
I was drowning in worry. It felt like somebody had chained me to a 200-pound iron ball and shoved me into a sea of anxiety.
Finding a well-paying job was challenging. The country was in a deep recession in 1982, so when I learned about lucrative work in the oilfields of Wyoming, I jumped at the opportunity.
I figured I’d take a few years off from college, work long hours on the rigs, pay off my debts, kick my cocaine habit, and come back to do college as a new man. I even planned to go fishing and hiking in the Wyoming mountains while I was there.
My aspirations did not materialize as I’d envisioned.
I had failed to realize that working on an oil rig was like working on a four-story-tall machine. A one-legged blind dog has more mechanical aptitude than I do. I’d never even changed a spark plug in a car.
I must have been a sight applying for the job in my suit and tie. The other fellows in greasy blue jeans and worn-out coveralls surely knew I was a fish out of water. The driller who signed me up must have had a sense of humor or was desperate for an extra hand.
Within six weeks, the oilfield and I parted ways. I’m not sure who was happier, me or the crew that carried my load. I stayed in Wyoming and worked as a waiter in Jackson
Hole for the next eight months. I attempted two business ventures to alleviate my mounting debt, but they only worsened it, pulling me deeper into despair.
My core values compounded my crisis. I believed that a person should handle their own problems and repay their creditors, regardless of the cost. While those values sound honorable, they prevented me from reaching out to people whose sound advice and help I needed.
In desperation, I decided to rob a bank. I wasn’t concerned about the outcome. If I succeeded, I could pay my bills and life would be good. If I didn’t—if I were killed or put in prison—at least the responsibility of my debt would be off my shoulders.
That’s how warped my thinking had become. Not for a second did I consider that an innocent person might be harmed. All I cared about was paying my bills and eliminating my stress. I had two dollars left to my name.
I chose a bank in Craig, Colorado, hoping to avoid being recognized. It was a mall bank whose wall safe was not much bigger than a microwave oven.
I entered that bank on March 18, 1982, revealed my gun, and told the teller to open the safe. When she said she didn’t know the combination, I didn’t even argue—I was too scared. Instead, I asked her to give me the money from the tellers’ drawers. Once I had the money in hand, I fled to my car. And with that fateful decision, this son of a police officer went from being a college student and former military policeman to a criminal.
As I drove out of town, I heard an announcement on my car radio about the bank robbery. My initial panic subsided when the announcer described the getaway car as a red sports car. That wasn’t even close to my tan Dodge Colt. I was elated. But I would soon learn the truth of Galatians 6:7 (NLT), “Don’t be misled—you cannot mock the justice of God.”
The Lord was about to rein in my prideful self.
There was a red sports car on the highway that day. A game warden in Colorado’s backcountry saw it and called in its license number to the Craig police department. The plates revealed that the car was associated with another crime, and the local police concluded that the driver must be the robber. Since the state line was close by, the Craig police contacted the Wyoming Highway Patrol to assist in intercepting the vehicle.
That’s when Wyoming Highway Patrolman Steve Watt entered the story. Steve, although not on patrol that day, responded to the callout. He had been driving for miles, searching for the red sports car without success. When he happened upon me in my brown compact car, he stopped me, intending to ask if I’d seen the sports car.
I panicked. I slammed on my brakes, nearly sending him into the rear of my car. Then, overcome with fear, I jumped out of my vehicle and crouched into the firing stance I had learned as a military policeman. I fired two bullets at his head. The first bullet passed through Steve’s windshield and hit him in the left eye.
Steve sought cover, throwing himself below the dashboard and out of my line of fire. I approached his car and unloaded four more shots into his abdomen. Each bullet penetrated Steve’s body, critically wounding him, but I didn’t care. I left him for dead and raced back to my car.
Eliminating him was the only solution I saw to what seemed a hopeless situation. I didn’t see a man, a son, a brother, or a husband; I just saw something standing in my way.
Incredibly, Steve found the strength to pursue me. The minute I put my vehicle in drive, he shot through my back window. His first shot hit my headrest and deflected downward, hitting me in the shoulder and knocking me forward out of the trajectory of the next five shots. As soon as I could regain my composure, I hit the gas.
I made it about a mile before I encountered law enforcement vehicles. One flew past me to assist Steve; another was waiting for me at a roadblock. When I saw him, I threw the car in park, grabbed the money bag, and ran through the prairie.
Five officers pursued me on foot, firing over 20 rounds from less than 50 yards away as they ran. Miraculously, every one of those bullets missed me except for one pellet of 00 buckshot. It hit my shoulder in the same spot Steve had shot me.
Somehow, I found myself in a shallow gully. I peered at the approaching officers and knew I was outnumbered. I had two bullets left. Obviously, I could not shoot my way out of this situation, so I surrendered.
The first officer who came upon me was Steve’s best friend, Officer Tracy. Understandably angry, he pulled out his gun and prepared to finish me off. Another officer intervened. He tried again once we were inside the car, but again an officer stopped him.
They took me to the hospital and placed me in the same room as Steve where only a thin sheet separated us. I could hear all the commotion as doctors scurried around Steve to save his life.
Officer after officer looked my way in total disgust. I’d never felt lower. Then Steve’s wife arrived, another officer. She entered the room but, instead of going to see her husband, she headed my way. She started to draw her service weapon, but an officer intervened again. The Lord’s hand was mercifully on me that day, as it was on Steve.
My medical needs were minor, and the doctor was easily able to extract the bullet and buckshot lodged in my shoulder. Steve, on the other hand, was in critical condition. His medical journey continues to this day.
I spent the next four months in jail contemplating my bleak future. Then I heard that in Wyoming, people with life sentences served, on average, only nine years and nine months. I decided to ask for life rather than risk what the judge might hand down.
My attorney strongly advised me against that, but I didn’t listen. As a result, I served 40 years and 11 months. Turns out, the judge was going to sentence me to 20 years, of which I probably would have served 14.
From the outside looking in, it seems I really messed things up for myself. But God knew I needed those extra 26 years to surrender my life to Him and develop a servant’s heart. It was a small price to pay for eternity and to discover my purpose.
While I served my time in prison, Steve entered a prison of his own—the prison of hate. As you’ll learn from his story on page 18, his bitterness nearly consumed him until he gave his anger to God and forgave me.
I’d served four years when Steve first reached out to me by way of a letter to let me know of his decision to follow Christ. I welcomed his letter and responded with 18 pages of my own.
In December 1986, after nine months of writing to one another, Steve came to meet me at a prison revival. All eyes were on us when he entered the room; everyone knew our story. As Steve approached me, I extended my hand. Instead of shaking it, he wrapped his arms around me and said, “I sure am glad I didn’t kill you that day!” He no longer saw me as a monster, but a man who had made a horrific mistake.
From that day forward, Steve became an integral part of my life. He wrote to me often, accepted my phone calls, and even brought his family to visit me. Can you imagine?
He told me he forgave me and consistently shared his faith, urging me to pursue a relationship with God. He wasn’t the only one. Many inmates shared the gospel with me, as did my grandmother. But each time, I politely refused their invitation. To me, Jesus was a fairy tale.
It took 22 years in prison to come to the end of myself and accept God’s gift of forgiveness and salvation. All the while, Steve and others continued to love me and even fought for my release.
Steve attended 16 parole board hearings on my behalf, met with three current governors, and gave media interviews. He wanted to share how forgiving me had set him free so that others could find freedom too.
Wardens and senators and others with significant political influence fought for my release as well—even Officer Tracy. But no matter who spoke on my behalf, no matter how good I was or what I accomplished in prison, three consecutive Wyoming governors refused to release me.
After 17 negative hearings between 1987 and 2004, I lost all hope. My release should have been in the bag. I’d been a model prisoner, was the first inmate in Wyoming to get a bachelor’s degree, and had even brought a private industry to the prison that employed 100 inmates. But none of that had mattered. There was nothing I could do to work my way out of this situation.
As you can imagine, I grew angry. One day, when a bully made a pass at my cellie, I lost it. My encounter with him earned me a trip to the hole.
People often say they turned to God in their rock-bottom moment. That was true for me. In that frigid isolation room, wearing nothing more than a thin T-shirt and shorts, I came to the end of myself. I fell to my knees and asked Jesus to come into my life. Right there in that cold, hard cell, all those seeds planted by all those caring people sprouted in my heart. Tears streamed down my face as a spirit of calm washed over me.
Soon, an officer brought me a blanket. The next day, I was given a Bible, something that wasn’t normal in that block. God showed me He had me right from the start.
But becoming a believer didn’t suddenly earn me a ticket out of prison. Not even close! I served another 19 years after I surrendered to Christ. But it was okay—I needed that time to deepen my relationship with the Lord. If I had gotten out sooner, my type-A, driven, prideful self would have grabbed the reins of my life and left God and those He wanted me to serve in my dust.
No, life didn’t get easy because of my faith, but it did get better. Trust in the Lord replaced my frustration and anger with peace and contentment.
I was honestly okay whether God arranged for me to get out or not. I knew He was with me and would help me face whatever came my way. That was the secret to my being able to live in prison without losing hope. The apostle Paul had discovered this same thing—he said, “I have learned the secret of living in every situation . . . for I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength” (Philippians 4:12–13 NLT).
Paul endured being robbed, imprisoned, beaten, stoned, shipwrecked, adrift at sea, hungry, thirsty, cold, naked, and so much more because Christ gave Him the strength to endure. (See 2 Corinthians 11:23–28.) Not only did he survive, but he also lived an impactful life, fulfilling God’s desires.
In Micah 6:8 (NLT), God told us what He wants from us: “to do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly” with Him. Having integrity, being merciful to others (just like God and Steve were merciful to me), and walking in humility with God always leads to blessings.
In February 2023, I walked out of those prison doors after serving more than four decades. Since then, God has provided everything I’ve needed—food, clothes, supplies, even a vehicle.
One night not long after my release, I found myself outside a Walmart, holding a two-pound bag of grapes and staring up at the beautiful starlit sky. Snuggled up in my warm coat, eating all the grapes I could stand, I asked myself, “Can it get any better than this?”
That was three years ago, and every day, I thank God for my life and for His faithfulness.
If you are in a waiting season, don’t give up. You are not alone.
The same God who sustained the Israelites for nearly 40 years in the desert is the same God who sustained me for over 40 years in the desert of prison. He will sustain you too.
As you wait to enter your “promised land,” determine to live a productive life. Refuse to dwindle away in anger, frustration, and hopelessness. Make the most of your time (Jeremiah 29:4–7). Take advantage of programs. Help others. Start planning now for what you dream of in the future. I prepared for my role at Compassion Wyoming for years before I left prison. Compassion Wyoming is a nonprofit I founded in 2024 to advocate for an exit strategy for reformed long-term Wyoming offenders.
God promises that He knows the plans He has for you (Jeremiah 29:11). Trust His plan and His timing while living in His strength. In Him, you can overcome all things (Romans 8:37), and you can thrive as you wait.
Mark Corbett has resided in Wyoming since his release from prison in 2023. He is the founder and executive director of Compassion Wyoming. Learn more at https://Compassionwyoming.org.
