During my freshman year in college, I was a full-time party girl. I was into everything my parents and teachers wished I wasn't, and I was really good at most of it. The guys loved me. The bar-keeps looked the other way. And my roommate was living her own adventure and hardly noticed when I made my bed.

I loved every minute of it!

I managed to squeak by tests for first term and was high on success. My folks bought me the car they had promised "if I got at least a B average." That was just in time for my academy alumni weekend. The old gang got together, stuffed ourselves into the VW, and headed off across the state line. This was the adventure we had looked forward to for a full year.

Did I mention the vodka in the trunk?

Everyone was glad to see us—until the dean caught us Saturday night. We hardly knew what was happening. I guess vodka does that to you when you're not used to drinking a lot of it at one time.

I thought they would just chase us away, since we were graduates. Instead, the dean called the sheriff and my life crashed into the ditch!

Mom and Dad had to come get me, and promise the sheriff they wouldn't let me drive for the next 20 years. The principal, the dean and at least a dozen other faculty members came to see me "off."

Then the "parents" took me back to college. I think they hoped it would all just go away when they drove my car back home.

But that's when it got worse.

The principal called the chairman of the college judiciary committee. Then the sheriff called him. Then a couple of the parents of the academy kids we'd gotten into trouble called also. Everyone wanted blood. My blood.

The judiciary committee meets in the darkest, dankest, tiniest room on campus. Down underneath stuff where they can send the criminals straight out to the chain gangs.

There were eight members, all old people who probably had never done anything wrong since Kindergarten. I didn't notice their eyes, cause mine were busy looking at the toes of my shoes that really needed polishing.

The girls' dean handed me a box of tissues, and the chairman said something about prayer.

Then he walked in. The president. Really! Just for my little executionary hearing.

"May I join you?" he asked the chairman.

There was a scooting of chairs, a short prayer, and then the chairman spoke.

"Cindy, tell us what happened."

Right then I couldn't remember why I had done it. Couldn't remember any details of what I'd done. I just knew I was crazy wrong and was about to lose everything I had ever hoped to have. My answer must have sounded like the blubberings of a drowning surfer, tears and whines and apologies and accurate descriptions of my own stupidity, all muffled by the dean's tissues.

I cry today just thinking about it!

Then I heard the president's wing tips clicking on the linoleum, around the metal folding chairs, toward my corner of the room. I didn't look up.

What happened next will always be the most amazing moment of my life. He knelt beside me, put a grandfatherly arm around my shoulders, and reached for the tissues. The president, my president, was crying as hard or harder than I was!

I don't know how long we cried, but when I looked up there were only three of us in the judiciary committee meeting room—the chairman, me and the president.

"Cindy," the president cleared his throat and tossed a wad of soggy tissues into a wastebasket. "Discipline's a lot more about the future than the past, a lot more about hope than about pain, and all about you choosing who you'd like to be."

I sat there a long, long time, rummaging through my life while the sun set on campus and came up for me. I want to be like that man!

Dick Duerksen is the official "storyteller" through words and photos for Maranatha Volunteers International. This story was shared with Dick specifically for publication in the Lake Union Herald. Readers may write Dick at dduerksen@maranatha.org.