Cookies With Christ: How God Met Me in Prison

Rob Reynolds went to a prison ministry event for one reason: free cookies.

"They told me Kairos prison ministries is coming and they're going to serve good food for four days and you get all the cookies you want for free," Rob said. "I was like, whoa, whoa, whoa. What did you say? Good food and cookies? Sign me up."

That's it. That was his motivation. Chocolate chip cookies.

And that's where Jesus met him.

The Long Road Down

Before we get to the cookies, you need to understand where Rob was coming from.

By sixteen, he was dealing large amounts of weed and getting into cocaine. After barely graduating high school, he followed his customers to Morgantown and became a severe alcoholic. He bounced through AA and NA. Got married. Had kids. Kept using.

He got into criminal activity. Hurt his back. Got hooked on OxyContin. Got diagnosed bipolar, manic depressive, borderline paranoid schizophrenic. By the time he went to prison, he was taking 500 milligrams of Seroquel twice a day plus a cocktail of other psych meds, plus abusing oxy, plus cocaine, plus alcohol, plus anything else he could get his hands on.

"I was like a garbage man," he told me.

And like a lot of us, he had his line. The thing that made him feel like he wasn't that bad.

"I did everything except shoot the needle and smoke crack until 2004," Rob said. "For fourteen years I told myself, at least I'm not shooting dope. As long as I wasn't shooting it, I thought I was somehow better than them."

That's how addiction works. We draw arbitrary lines to convince ourselves we're still in control. Still not as bad as that guy. Still able to quit whenever we want.

And then the line moves.

By his last three years, Rob was smoking crack, shooting heroin, and overdosing regularly. He tried to kill himself by the river with a pile of oxy, Percocet, Valium, crack, heroin, and beer. Didn't wake up for two days. Drove himself to the hospital.

He ended up with three robbery charges and a ten-year prison sentence.

The Letter That Broke Him

In prison, people kept trying to hand Rob a Bible. He wasn't interested.

"I didn't want him on the street," Rob said. "I surely am not going to want him in prison when I'm down on my last luck. And all the people trying to hand me a Bible were getting high with me on the street. So I was like, there's no way."

Then his twelve-year-old daughter wrote him a letter.

"Dad, when you get out, I'm done with you. Don't talk to me. Don't come around. I don't even want your last name. Don't come to my wedding. I won't be at your funeral. You're dead to me."

That's when Rob realized he was becoming worse than his parents ever were. He put himself in a residential treatment program at Huttonsville State Prison. And that's where he met the guys who would change his life.

Mark Hubble and Rocky Meadows were leaders in the program. Christians. Rob came to them and said, "Guys, I don't know how to do this, but I don't want to be an addict anymore. I need help."

They wrote him up every day. Held him accountable. Told him about Jesus. He listened but didn't really engage.

Then they mentioned the cookies.

The Weight Lifted

The Kairos ministry came for four days. The first couple days, people kept trying to hug Rob and love on him. He wasn't having it. He just kept eating cookies.

On the third day, they asked everyone to write down two lists: everyone they needed to forgive, and everyone who needed to forgive them.

Rob didn't want to talk to anyone, so he took all day working on his lists. Then they went outside, balled up the papers, and threw them into a burn barrel while a pastor prayed.

"It was the first time in my life that I felt anxiety and panic attacks leave," Rob said. "I could breathe for once. Like a weight came off. I started crying in front of sixty dudes in prison, which is not the coolest thing to do. I blamed it on the fire. Said it was the smoke."

But he felt something real.

He went back to his cell scared because he didn't know what it was. He prayed a simple prayer: "God, if that's you, I want that."

Flat on His Face

The next morning, the pastor who led the exercise was waiting for him.

"Man, I've been up all night praying for you," the pastor said. "I feel like you want to talk to me."

He gave Rob Proverbs 3:5-6. Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will direct your paths.

Then they walked into the chapel together. A makeshift space with shower curtains for walls.

"As soon as I walked in, he never said a word," Rob said. "I know now what it was. The Holy Spirit hit me and I just fell flat on my face. Everything I wrote on that paper and everything in me just started gushing out for like two hours. I cried and snotted and bawled on the floor until I was a mess."

When he stood up, he couldn't see clearly. But he describes looking down and seeing himself still lying there. Dead. And for the first time, he could breathe. He was free.

"I knew all my addictions and everything was going. I knew I met Jesus. And that dude died."

No Weaning Required

Here's the part that messes with people's theology.

Rob was taking 500 milligrams of Seroquel twice a day. Plus all the other psych meds. Plus abusing everything he could get his hands on.

From that day in the chapel, he never took another pill. Never weaned off anything. Never went back to AA or NA.

"I had no religious background to undo," Rob said. "I was just a brand new baby that said yes and believed every bit of it and ran by faith."

That's not everyone's story. Some people get delivered in an instant. Some walk it out over years with accountability and structure and hard work. Both paths are valid. Both require Jesus.

But Rob's story is a reminder that God isn't limited by our timelines or our treatment plans. Sometimes he just shows up and does what only he can do.

Twelve Years Later

Rob waived his parole to get into a Christian discipleship program called House of Miracles. Spent a year getting discipled. The Pentecostal prayer meetings freaked him out at first, but he stuck with it.

The pastor told him to read Acts 2. Then read it again. Then he said, "Son, if you'll believe everything in here is for you, it's the absolute truth. You can walk in it. Put your name on it and bank on God. You'll never go back to that lifestyle."

Rob believed him.

Twelve years later, he's never relapsed. He's remarried. God brought his kids back into his life. He adopted two more kids, which isn't supposed to happen with seventeen felonies on your record.

He ran a recovery program called Freedom House for four years. Now he's the director at Cumberland Teen Challenge. He pastors a church.

All because he showed up for free cookies.

"I live in a new kingdom," Rob says. "I'm a new person."

That's the gospel. Not self-improvement. Not behavior modification. New creation. Old things passed away. Everything made new.

Even a garbage man from West Virginia with seventeen felonies and a daughter who said he was dead to her.

Especially him.

This article is based on a conversation from the Rebuilding Life After Addiction podcast. Listen to the full episode here.