In 2011, a few weeks after leaving Oklahoma State Penitentiary, I began working for Greene County Pretrial Services.
One day, I was sitting with a defendant in the visiting area of the county jail when a call came over the radio.
There was a fight on one of the housing units.
Almost immediately, I heard boots pounding as available officers began running toward the disturbance.
I jumped out of my chair and started moving.
About a dozen steps later, I stopped.
Then I turned around, walked back, and sat down.
The defendant looked at me in complete bewilderment.
“What was that about?”
For years, responding to that kind of call had been part of my responsibility. When something happened, you moved. Other officers might need help. Someone could be injured. Hesitation could matter.
But my role had changed.
I was no longer working in that capacity. Responding to the disturbance wasn’t my assignment.
My body had reacted before I stopped to consider that.
Training got me out of the chair. Judgment brought me back to it.
I’ve thought about that distinction in a different way lately.
When someone first comes to God—or returns after wandering away—they don’t arrive without a history.
They bring years of learned responses.
Some learned to become defensive because every disagreement eventually became an accusation.
Some learned to withdraw because speaking honestly never felt safe.
Some learned to strike first, shut down, expect rejection, or keep everyone at a distance.
And sometimes those responses followed them into the very place where they came looking for healing.
I understand that.
Returning to God didn’t mean I suddenly stopped reacting out of fear, shame, or the expectation that someone would hurt me again.
My direction had changed.
But not every instinct had caught up.
Paul wrote:
“And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind…”
—Romans 12:2 NKJV
Notice where that transformation reaches.
The mind.
The way we understand what’s happening. The conclusions we draw. The familiar patterns through which we interpret another person’s words.
God doesn’t merely ask us to look different while leaving every old pattern unexamined. He works within us, teaching us to recognize what we’ve been living by—and whether it agrees with His Word.
That work can be uncomfortable.
An old response may feel justified simply because it feels familiar.
But familiar doesn’t always mean faithful.
And understanding why I react a certain way doesn’t automatically make that reaction right.
An explanation helps me recognize where the response came from.
It doesn’t give me permission to keep hurting people with it.
For years, in corrections work and in teaching young people, I returned to the importance of decisions.
With incarcerated adults, the conversation often involved confronting an established cycle. There were real circumstances behind their stories. But moving forward required recognizing the decisions that belonged to them rather than assigning every responsibility to someone else.
With young people, the purpose was often preparation: helping them recognize how choices could begin building a life—or lead them into patterns that would become increasingly difficult to escape.
The goal wasn’t simply to say, “Look what you’ve done.”
It was to help them see, “You can begin choosing differently.”
I’ve needed that same truth myself.
Not everything that brought pain into my life was my decision.
Some of it was.
I can’t honestly address either part by pretending the other doesn’t exist.
Paul also wrote:
“Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap.”
—Galatians 6:7 NKJV
That passage isn’t merely a warning about punishment. Paul goes on to contrast sowing to the flesh with sowing to the Spirit, then encourages us not to grow weary in doing good.
What we keep planting matters.
Repeated anger feeds something.
So does repeated honesty.
Avoiding responsibility strengthens a pattern.
So does admitting, “I was wrong.”
One apology won’t repair every relationship. One restrained response won’t erase years of defensiveness. One faithful decision may not immediately change the circumstances around us.
But it can be a beginning.
And when change comes slowly, Paul’s encouragement still belongs here:
“And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.”
—Galatians 6:9 NKJV
Renewal doesn’t mean we’ll never feel the old impulse.
Sometimes the first movement will still be fear. Anger. Withdrawal. The urge to defend ourselves before we’ve even understood what was said.
We don’t always choose that first surge.
But with God’s help, we can learn to recognize it, pause, and choose what follows. Sometimes that learning also requires wise counsel, practical support, and time.
We can listen before answering.
We can ask a question instead of assuming a motive.
We can acknowledge an injury without using it to justify another one.
And when we fail, we can repent, make what amends we can, and keep learning.
My old training got me out of that chair.
Recognizing that my responsibility had changed brought me back.
That day, the faithful response wasn’t to keep running.
It was to stop.
There are still moments when I need God to teach me that distinction.
I may not be responsible for everything that brought me here. But my next response still matters.
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