Do you know Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?
This question often results in strange looks and less-than-nice responses. But that has never stopped me from asking it. I want people everywhere to know the greatness of God’s love and how He saved me, a lost and broken man.
His love freed me from my self-imposed prison of fear and resentment and redeemed my life from the pit. But not everyone desires to hear this good news. For a long time, I didn’t either.
I had to go through hell on earth before I realized my need for a Savior. Before then, I wasn’t convinced God existed, nor did I care. My only concern was living my dream as a Wyoming patrolman. I joined the force in 1979, right after I turned 23, becoming the youngest trooper in the state.
My family didn’t understand my decision—we were ranchers, not law enforcers. But ever since I was seven and saw a uniformed state trooper standing next to his car with a big honkin’ gun strapped to his side, I knew that was who I wanted to be.
Upon graduation from the Academy, I requested an assignment to Rock Springs, Wyoming—a boomtown known for violence and corruption. I was a rough-and-tough cowboy looking for adventure. It was a perfect match.
My exciting adventure ended, though, three years later on March 18, 1982, when I unknowingly pulled over a bank robber fleeing the scene of his crime. Before I’d even shifted my car into park, the panicked man jumped out of his car and came toward me. I kicked open my car door to exit, and he opened fire.
His first bullet penetrated my windshield, hitting me in the left eye. It stopped with only the thickness of a piece of paper from my brain. The second bullet ricocheted off the windshield. I leaned down out of the line of fire and reached for my radio, screaming, “I’ve been shot!” into the microphone.
By then, the man was leaning into my car and shooting me point-blank in the left lower back. One bullet hit my liver, miraculously missing a major blood vessel by a quarter of an inch. Another hit my spine, stopping a 16th of an inch from my spinal cord. The final two bullets bounced around my insides, ripping through my bowels and intestines, and settling in my hip socket. All five shots should have been fatal.
The assailant retreated, and somehow, I managed to get out of my car and draw my gun. But then I remembered I was only allowed to discharge a weapon in self-defense or to shoot a fleeing felon. This man had his back to me and was no longer trying to hurt me. I couldn’t justify shooting him in self-defense. I waited until his vehicle started to move and then opened fire.
My first bullet ricocheted off his headrest. It hit him in the left shoulder, knocking him forward, to the right, and out of the line of the next five bullets that would have certainly hit him in the chest.
As soon as he was able, the man sped away. I made my way back to the radio and screamed for help again. I heard the dispatcher order an ambulance, but I didn’t think I’d make it.
I attempted to retrieve my first aid kit from the trunk of my car to stop the bleeding. A few steps in, though, I collapsed. I landed next to the exhaust pipe of my still-running vehicle. I didn’t have the strength to move away from the hot, toxic fumes and considered the irony—I’d survive all those bullets, only to die of exhaust poisoning.
I didn’t believe in God at the time, but I prayed anyway. “God, I don’t know if I’m going to die. If I do, take care of my wife. Please, help me.” A life-and-death crisis will cause most atheists to pray.
Not long after, a truck driver arrived and turned off my car, saving me from the fumes. Then came a patrolman, who administered first aid. The ambulance arrived next. When I heard the EMTs shout out my vitals, I knew I was in trouble. They rushed me to the hospital, where a medical team tended to my most critical injuries.
I about came off the table when one doctor broke my nose with his fist and then forced a large tube down my nasal passage. Another poked around my hollow eye socket. Someone else thrust a large needle into my abdomen to relieve the accumulating blood. Blood shot to the ceiling.
The pain was so intense that I threatened to kick the butt of the next person who touched me. With that statement, someone suggested I must have brain damage. I heard the anesthesiologist request a moment to administer anesthesia, to which the doctor responded, “There’s no time!” and proceeded to cut me open.
I’m telling you, what went on in that room was more traumatic than the shooting. I underwent ten hours of surgery that day. The doctors removed my left eye and a third of my liver and repaired my bowels and intestines. They left the bullets. Six months later, the doctor went back in to retrieve the two bullets in my hip. The one in my spine remains, as the risk of paralysis is too great to remove it.
As I recovered, however, it wasn’t the physical pain or the trauma of the recent events that overwhelmed me. It was my bitterness toward Mark Corbett—the man who had shot me.
My hatred intensified every time I looked in the mirror. Every day, the gaping hole where my eye used to be and the rest of the scars I carried screamed of all Mark had stolen from me. So did the terrifying dreams, fear, anxiety, excruciating headaches, and other physical pain. My life was a living nightmare.
I was determined to return to work. No way was Mark going to take my career, too. But I was so overcome with the fear of being shot that I couldn’t do my job. I imagined every person I encountered was going to hurt me—men, women, and children alike. I called in sick often and turned to alcohol and painkillers to survive.
One day at the detention center, I saw Mark. For a brief moment, I fully considered killing him. I reached for my service weapon but came to my senses before I could do anything stupid. Not long after, I considered killing myself. But I couldn’t go through with it. I’d already put my wife through so much.
My employers were patient as long as possible, but eventually, they gave me an ultimatum: get my act together, face termination, or resign. I walked away after I almost shot an unarmed man.
Over the next year, my wife, also a cop and staunch atheist, began asking questions about God. She couldn’t deny the miracle of my being alive. After speaking with a chaplain, she accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior and was baptized. Noticing her newfound joy and peace, I began asking my own questions. I needed what she had.
I went to see her chaplain friend. He patiently shared how God so loved me that He gave His Son, Jesus, to die for me, so that my sins could be forgiven (John 3:16). The only thing that could save me, he said, was faith in Jesus. Nothing I could do would work (Romans 6:23; Galatians 5:6; Ephesians 2:8–9). The gospel came alive to me, and right there at his dining table, I put my faith in Jesus for salvation.
There were no heavenly fireworks and no immediate joy. I eventually called the chaplain and asked why I still felt so dead inside. He asked if I’d forgiven Mark. I assured him that I had, but he wasn’t fooled and called me out. I hung up on him.
When the misery continued, I humbled myself and reached back out. The chaplain suggested that I write a letter to Mark. Desperate, I agreed. I also sent Mark copies of articles that had recently been published about our shootout and my faith.
In my letter, I said, “Mark, I don’t wish you pain by sending these articles your way. I just want to share my faith with you. If you haven’t already, would you join me in Christ’s love and the Christian family?” God lifted the darkness from me the moment I signed my name, giving me His gift of joy (Galatians 5:22).
A few months later, though, the Holy Spirit began prompting me to write another letter to Mark, extending forgiveness. I refused, and all the joy I’d found left.
To me, it seemed that extending forgiveness would lessen the impact of what Mark had done to me. His choice had cost me everything. What I didn’t understand was that my bitterness and hate were costing me more than his bullets ever could. Those emotions were eating me alive from the inside out and opening a door for Satan to destroy my life. (See Genesis 4:2–7; Ephesians 4:25–27; Hebrews 12:15.)
I wrestled with God’s instruction until finally, I obeyed. I even wrote, “Mark, I love you.” They were the hardest words I’ve ever expressed.
You may wonder how I could love a man who hurt me so badly. On my own, I couldn’t. But when I considered God’s unconditional love toward me, a sinner, I had no choice.
How could I withhold what God had given me? And why would I want to? The Bible is filled with warnings about the cost of unforgiveness. (See Matthew 6:15, 18:35; Mark 11:25; and Ephesians 4:31–32.)
When I first forgave Mark, I imagined I’d given him quite a gift. But today, I understand that forgiveness is a gift that God has given me.
Chinese missionary Brother Yun, in his book, The Heavenly Man, describes forgiveness as a gift that God has given us, enabling us to survive in an evil world where people hurt, betray, and do terrible things to us. It’s living in a flow of forgiveness, he says, that results in our freedom.
It’s true. By choosing to forgive Mark, I was released from a self-imposed prison. Not only that, but I also received the most unlikely gift of friendship.
Mark and I exchanged letters for ten months before I met him in person. That occurred during a church-led revival at the prison where Mark was residing. I didn’t want to go at first, but I knew better than to disobey the Holy Spirit’s leading.
I spent the entire night before we met in a motel room, praying. “God, whatever I do or say when I first see this man, let it be from You.” I didn’t trust myself.
The next morning, when Mark stuck out his hand to shake mine, I didn’t shake it. Instead, I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. There’s no way that embrace was from me! But as I held Mark, a dark thought formed: You could kill this man right now with your bare hands.
“No!” I quickly told myself. “That’s not me anymore!” I recognized it as a trap from Satan. He was hoping to destroy my life. But as I resisted him, he fled (James 4:7). God will always give us a way out (1 Corinthians 10:13).
Mark and I talked that whole day. I shared the gospel with him and asked if he wanted to accept Christ. But it didn’t happen. Mark told me he had too much respect for me and my beliefs to pretend to believe something he didn’t.
For the next 22 years, I wrote and visited Mark, each time giving him an opportunity to receive Jesus’s gift of salvation. I refused to give up on him, trusting that all those faith seeds I was sowing into his life would one day bear fruit (Galatians 6:9). And they did. But it wasn’t until he hit rock bottom that he finally put his life in God’s hands. (You can read Mark’s story on page 14.)
I attended Mark’s first parole hearing to show support for his release. I shocked everyone when the parole board asked if I had anything to say, and I answered them with this question: “Do you know Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?” The parole board and Mark all looked at me like I was crazy.
I attended many other hearings in the years to come, but never spoke on Mark’s behalf until the Lord challenged me with this question: “Steve, is Mark your friend?”
“Of course,” I responded.
And the Lord called me out just like that chaplain had years ago. “Well, if Mark is your friend, why won’t you speak up for him like My Son spoke up for you?”
I was speechless.
Jesus, my advocate, continually intercedes for me. (See Romans 8:27; Hebrews 7:25; and 1 John 2:1.) He even sacrificed His life for me when I was His enemy (Romans 8:5–10).
From then on, I spoke up for Mark and rallied others to do the same. Finally, in February 2023, Mark was released. Our friendship has remained strong over the years. We visit as often as we can and share our story with all who will listen.
It’s been 44 years since that life-altering day. I continue to endure tremendous physical pain and ongoing surgeries related to the shooting, as well as an ever-present struggle with PTSD, which cost me my first marriage.
Still, I praise God and say, without hesitation, that getting shot was the best thing that ever happened to me. It led me to Christ and taught me to love others as God desires, which made me a better man and brought me into a deep dependency on God.
I must admit, though, I long for the day when God takes me to my heavenly home. This life isn’t easy. Until He does, however, I continue to tell others about His great love and trust that He will provide for the journey. It’s what God commands us all to do (Mark 16:15).
In 2013, God gave me the gift of my beautiful wife, Joyce. This amazing woman willingly stepped into my pain and helps me navigate often difficult roads. He also blessed me with Sam, a highly trained service animal. Sam has saved my life on many occasions, and he opens doors for me to share my God-story with others. I share because I care.
Before my accident, not one Christian I’d met had ever told me about Jesus. If I had died during that shooting, I’d have gone to hell.
It amazes me how believers who are supposed to be the light of the world leave people like me in darkness. They are either too busy or too afraid to share their thoughts. But isn’t rejection a small price to pay for another’s soul?
So let me ask you—Do you know Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior? Please don’t wait till you hit rock bottom (like Mark and I did) to realize your need for Him. Accept Jesus by faith now, and avoid the pain “rock bottoms” inevitably bring.
Then deepen your relationship with God by studying the scriptures, praying, fellowshipping with other believers, and attending a Bible-believing, Christ-loving, people-serving church. And don’t forget to tell others how good He is!
One final thing—if you’ve accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior but you still lack joy and peace, let me ask you this—have you extended forgiveness to those who have hurt you? I know it’s difficult, and God knows it too. He sacrificed His Son to forgive you (John 3:16).
Receiving His gift of forgiveness and extending it to others is the key to unlocking your prison of misery and staying free.
Steve Watt lives in Colorado with his wife Joyce and his service dog Sam. He lives to tell others about Jesus.
