There are moments in police work that stay with you for life—not because they were dangerous, but because they were so human that they carve themselves into memory with perfect clarity.

Years ago, I worked alongside an officer who was a devout Jehovah’s Witness. I don’t recall his name now, but I remember his gentleness. He was the kind of man who corrected our language with a smile. If someone muttered “God damn,” he’d say, “Don’t say that—say ‘God bless.’” He meant it sincerely, and we respected him for it.

Earlier in that same shift, my partner Jim had slipped into the JAG office—the Judge Advocate General’s space, meaning the lawyers’ offices—during a routine security check and put a little mace on the women’s toilet seats as a joke. This was the 1980s, back when officers carried chemical mace—essentially a form of tear gas—rather than the pepper spray used today. It was potent, unforgiving stuff, and if it touched skin, you knew it immediately.

Jim came back to me snickering about what he’d done. That was when I reminded him that every time we entered a closed office during the night, we radioed it in. Which meant it went straight onto the police blotter. And the can itself clearly stated that using its contents for anything other than its intended purpose constituted a felony, punishable by no less than a year in prison.

We looked at each other, realized the implications, and spent the next few minutes wiping down every toilet seat in the JAG office. Jim wasn’t a criminal. He was a good man, just tired, and the joke had gotten away from him.

Later that night, during another lull in the shift, the Jehovah’s Witness officer ducked into the station restroom. What he didn’t know was that Jim—apparently still in a mischievous mood—had placed a small amount of mace on the toilet seat there as well.

A few seconds after he sat down, we heard a startled yelp followed by frantic scrambling. Then the door flew open and he stumbled out, eyes watering, face twisted in shock.

What came out of his mouth in that moment was… not “God bless.”

I won’t repeat his exact words here, but they involved his backside clenching so tight it nearly sealed shut. And I’ll tell you the truth: I hit the floor. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down my face—this time not from the mace.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t embarrassed. Once the sting wore off, he laughed too. Because in that moment, the uniform didn’t matter. His religious veneer didn’t matter. My composure didn’t matter.

We were just human beings in a ridiculous situation, sharing the kind of laughter that only comes when the tension of the job cracks open for a moment and lets the light in.

I’ve never forgotten it. Not because it was crude, but because it was real.

Sometimes the most honest moments in life are the ones that strip away our practiced lines and leave us standing there—just human.