I was so hurt, so struck down, so sick because of my sin. As I lay in my top bunk in my prison cell, my mind and my body were torn inside out. I'd arrived at the State Correctional Facility at Muncy, Pa. on January 5, 2000. It was an awful day and a horrid time in my life. By February 6th, the day after my 40th birthday, the prison started me on Interferon treatment, shots in the stomach and 3 pills a day of Ribiviron to treat my Hepititis C. As the medicine coursed through me, it made me sicker and sicker. Prison is no place to be sick. There is no sympathy and certainly no leeway. They just don't care. Then February 8th, my Grandpa Bill died. He was the one person in the entire world, that I respected the most and the one person I wanted to make happy.Grandpa was a stern man but when I did wrong, he'd say in his low baritone voice, almost a whisper,"Barbara, you know you can do better." And when I doubted myself and I always did, Grandpa would always say,"Barbara you know you can do it." I was so sick, I couldn't even cry, yet my world was falling apart. Prison is no place for tears either. People don't want to hear your annoying sobbing, so I didn't cry. I held it in along with everything else. My only possessions were a bible and a picture of Grandpa. I placed both neatly on the metal shelf that was my spot. On top of the bible I placed Grandpa's picture. The day after he died I was called to the Psychology Dept. for my first session with Dr. Wood, a very nice woman who really wanted to make sure I wasn't suicidal, as one of the apparent symptoms of this Interferon treatment was suicidal tendancies. Although, at that point in time, I wished I was dead, I didn't tell her that and was simple in my answers. She said, "But Barbara, what are you doing with all these emotions, I'm concerned?" I looked her straight in the eye and said,"I'm doing what my Grandpa told me to do, I'm laying them at the foot of the cross." I handed her my pass to sign and walked out. When I was secured back in my cell and had climbed back up on my bunk, I noticed that the picture of my Grandpa was gone. I jumped down and questioned the three other girls as to what they did with my picture. I looked under the shelf, I looked everywhere. The bible had been placed, standing up, facing in just as you would put a library book in with other books. The picture of Grandpa was placed horizontally on top of the bible. I felt I could take no more and I grabbed my bible and feebly climbed back up on my bunk. My soul was crying out, my pores were reaking of sin but I could only go to the Father and tell him that I deserved to be where I was, to please forgive me and take this pain, the weight of all my sin away from me. As I sat in a heap on my bunk. I opened my bible and there was Grandpa's picture. How it got there to this day I do not know but it was placed between Psalms 38 and 39. Read it, Psalm 38 again, it described me and 39 spoke to me. During my 3 1/2 years of incarceration, I read those Psalms over and over and still do. Thank you Grandpa. I am grateful for the wisdom you imparted and the seeds you planted. That and Yeshua holding my hand, brought me through the fire.