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My cheek pressed hard against the toilet seat, and I clung to the bowl desperately with both arms. I couldn't let myself pass out. I had to keep throwing up or I wasn't going to walk out of there.

My legs were stretched out behind me, too numb to support my body. Every-thing was going numb. I was terrified, but I kept silent. Calling for help would be too dangerous for a drunk girl in a dark New York City bathroom.

The pounding beat of techno music echoed from inside the club. It would be five more hours until the club closed—five more hours before my friends would search for me. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I imagined how someone would find me: lifeless, hair matted and sticky, my lavender dress soaked in orange vomit. And how my parents would sob, thinking how their little girl was eternally lost.

I closed my eyes. The noises around me faded, and through the darkness, I thought I heard a soft voice:

"How have you represented me?"

"Lord," I began weakly, "I … I tried … "

But that wasn't true. For the past four years of college, I'd partied and drank myself stupid almost every weekend, all the while telling everyone I was a Christian.

"Badly, Lord."

Events from my life zoomed through my mind. By junior high, I thought my spiritual roots were deep: I went to five church services a week. I had pictured myself as a Super Christian, able to leap over any sinful situation with a single bound. And I could do it all with my own strength.

As a Super Christian, my special powers and talents made me the best praiser and worshiper ever. I had a slew of awards from church district talent shows to prove it.

My memories turned to a talent show with one odd performance: A guy got up and sang, twangy and off-key, a song almost entirely made up of five words: "He's still workin' on me. He's still workin' on me. … "

Every other note was flat. The notes in between those were sharp. I scowled at him. If he wasn't going to worship perfectly, why even try?

Some of the other performers began to snicker. I joined in. The boy heard us, but kept singing, his eyes focused heavenward, carefully articulating each word: "He's … still … workin' … on … me. … "

When awards were handed out, I proudly accepted yet another purple "Superior" ribbon, the highest honor. All in a day's work for a Super Christian. I tossed it in my purse. The guy who "needed some work" humbly held out his hands for the green "Good" ribbon. He pinned it to his shirt. My jaw dropped. Why would anyone want to show off a "Good" ribbon?

A light tap on the stall door snapped me back to reality. "Ah yoo oh-kay?" a female voice inquired in a nasally New York accent. Two feet in strappy magenta-colored platforms now occupied the space just outside the door.

"Yeah, I'm OK," I managed to weakly reply. I was too ashamed to admit the truth. I was in trouble. There was still too much alcohol in my system, and I couldn't force myself to throw up anymore.

"Drink this." I saw her hands and knees as she stooped to push a cup under the stall door. Letting go of the toilet with one arm, I grabbed it. It was water! She told me she would be back soon with more. The click of her heels faded, then disappeared. I sipped the water, careful not to let one precious drop spill. Who knew if she'd really come back? Almost immediately, I started vomiting again.

My memories turned to high school, when my holier-than-thou attitude had worsened. I even managed to excuse the sips of beer I took at parties—convincing myself it was OK because I didn't get drunk like everybody else.

College life offered freedom—and choices. I went to church less because it made me feel guilty. I partied and drank more and more because it temporarily made me feel good. "It's what everyone does in college," I again convinced myself. "I'll make it right with the Lord … later."

Worst of all, I kept on telling people how great it was to be a Christian when I didn't live or even feel like one. It didn't seem wrong to hold a beer in one hand and a Bible in the other.

John* was one of those people. He was the first atheist I'd ever met. I didn't know anything about him, but immediately made it my personal mission to change him. So I told John about how great my life was, how God made the difference.

"If Christians are so different, why do they party and get drunk like everybody else?" John asked. "What's the difference?"

And somehow, I didn't make the connection. I gave up on John after that, believing he was a lost cause.

The magenta-shoed stranger had returned with water once every hour for the past three hours. A full cup was near my feet. But I was sick of throwing up, and I was emotionally drained. I couldn't find the strength to reach for it.

Reviewing my life had been awful. I had repeatedly blown it, even done damage, and I hadn't once asked God to forgive me. I wasn't a Super Christian at all. I had never truly trusted God, never given him control of my life, never walked with him.

My arms were giving out, numb from holding onto the toilet bowl for these last several hours. I pinched my chin against the rim of the toilet seat, hoping to stay coherent for a few more seconds.

There was no way I could change my past now. But there was one thing I could do.

"Forgive me, Father," I prayed. "Forgive me for all the mistakes I made. Forgive me for saying you made the difference in my life, then never allowing you to do it. Forgive me for ignoring the lessons you offered. It probably doesn't mean much now, Lord, but I really want you to be in control of my life. I've seen what I can do, and it isn't any good without you. You are the Lord of my life, Jesus."

I let go of the toilet bowl and slunk down to the floor. The tiles were cool and comforting. A wonderful peace flowed through my mind and heart. I closed my eyes and began to lose consciousness.

Loud voices flooded the bathroom. "She's in here." It was the girl in the magenta shoes. "She's been in there all night."

The stall door rattled. "It's locked." A male voice this time. "I'm coming in!"

I opened my eyes and looked up. A light was shining down on me and voices surrounded me. I assumed this was death. But I wasn't afraid now.

A dark figure was scrambling over the side of the stall. He picked me up. I could make out the letters E-M-T on his shirt. He was a paramedic! I closed my eyes again and said a prayer of thanks.

Only God could lift me out of my own mess, clean me up and give me another day. I'm keeping my promise to let him take control of my life. It's been a long process to let faith in and push my own pride out. I can feel the difference: The superiority and disapproval I once felt have been replaced by God's love and acceptance.

And he's still working on me. I hum that young man's song sometimes, remembering how joyfully he sang it. To my ears back then, it was far from perfect. Now, I know the perfect love his heart felt. With God placed first in my life, I don't need to get the "Superior" for myself anymore. I just need the "Good" award from God: to be his good and faithful servant, who he will invite with open arms into his kingdom forever.

Read more from 'It Happened to Me'

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