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But Christine's pursuit of redemption is different than the paths chosen by many of her fellow inmates at the state's women's prison.
Instead of turning to a priest, minister, rabbi, or other conventional religious leader, she seeks out a witch.
"In the Wiccan religion you're a healer above everything else. You learn how to heal yourself, before doing your part to heal the planet," says India Blue, 46, the spiritual guide Christine has chosen.
Blue is the first witch to be allowed in a Connecticut prison.
Blue says she and Christine have "normal" visits rather than participating in rituals. She says this is mostly because they are in the common visiting room, where inmates and correction officers may perceive rituals as too strange.
"It's kind of like we're on display," Blue says.
Blue says proselytizing is against Wiccan beliefs, so practicing in public makes her uncomfortable.
Instead she and Christine just talk.
"She'll have some questions from her readings, and we'll talk through them almost like a counseling session," Blue says.
Christine, who has been in and out of prison for the past 12 years, says that her meetings with Blue have helped turn her life around. She was sentenced for her most recent crime in 1999.
"I stay really grounded and focused at all times. India's been so helpful," says Christine, whom correction officials permitted to be interviewed only if her last name were not used.
Christine is one of five inmates she knows who adhere to Wicca, a pagan religion that takes its teachings from nature and reads inspiration in the movements of the sun, moon, stars, and cycles of the seasons.
In recent years, Wicca has been growing in popularity worldwide, but this "old religion," closer in spirit to American Indian traditions, is viewed cautiously by many.
"A lot of Christians think we're Satan worshippers," Christine says, so it's no surprise correction officials were hesitant to allow the visits.
Their willingness to provide followers of Wicca access to spiritual guides like Blue came only after they became convinced practicing the religion wouldn't create a security risk.
Christine says she pleaded for more than a year and a half by submitting a form prisoners use to request religious services. The requests went to York's chaplain, the Rev. Laurie Etter.
Etter took Christine's request and researched the religion. Then a woman who had taught a class at York, knew Etter, and had attended some of the rituals Blue conducted "sort of vouched for me," Blue says.
But Blue needed more than a recommendation. She would have to pass a few more tests, including a criminal background check, before she could meet Christine.
"The other parameter for approving a religious volunteer is they must provide a reference from an established church," says correction spokeswoman Christina Polce.
Blue presented the Department of Correction with a reference from the Church of Eternal Light, a pagan church in Bristol.
The decision to allow Blue visits with Christine - who is the first Connecticut inmate, male or female, to be permitted contact with a Wiccan spiritual guide - wasn't made overnight, but has proven its worth over time, Christine and Blue say.
Christine believes Wicca helps keep her grounded as she completes her sentence.
"This is the first Connecticut institution that has realized Wicca as a religion," Christine says.
Blue says she and Christine would like to hold collective services with other self-proclaimed witches, noting that inmates who adhere to other faiths are afforded such privileges.
"They let people into regular god prayer, and they have a circle every night," says Christine, who practices mostly by meditating.
Blue was allowed to address over 30 inmates at "Sacred Heart Academy," a class the prison system offers to teach inmates religious tolerance. During the class, all inmates participated in the Wiccan ritual.
"There were girls who came with their Bibles not knowing what to expect, but they were all joining in the ritual by the end and choosing tarot cards," Christine says.
Polce says the Correction Department has been seeking prison volunteers from more obscure religions for 20 years.
"Before the 1980s, the Muslims and Jehovah's Witnesses and Native American religions were not recognized and now they hold collective services," Polce says.
But Father John Gatzak, executive director of radio and television for the Archdiocese of Hartford, says he's a little uncomfortable with the Correction Department's decision to open its prisons to witches.
"I don't believe in witchcraft. It's important for all people to go beyond fantasy, to fact and reality, and see a merciful God in their lives," Gatzak says.
He says in ministering from his Judeo-Christian perspective, "there are a lot of things we need to be aware of, in terms of something disguising itself as a bonafide religion."
But he says he also acknowledges the separation of church and state and respects the DOC's decision.
"The test of a true religion is in the everyday practice of good works … what good comes from the practice and faith both individually and the persons he or she touches?" Gatzak says.
Sensitive to criticism from mainstream religions, Wiccans are quick to point out they reject devil worship in any of its forms.
They claim the religion goes back 35,000 years. Specifically, Wicca recognizes a god and a goddess, but their symbolism is not parallel to God in most monotheistic religions. The Wiccan god and goddess do not rule the world, but their qualities are manifest in Wiccan witches.
Blue, who has been practicing the religion for 18 years, does not apologize for her faith.
"I'm all for Jesus, or people believing in something outside themselves," Blue says.
But Blue, like some liberal Catholic priests, specifically author Andrew M. Greeley, think it's no coincidence Wiccan and Christian holidays fall on the same day.
Greeley says in his book, "The Catholic Myth," that "the Catholic tradition sees no harm in appropriating whatever is good, true, beautiful, and useful in paganism for its own purposes, so long as paganism is reinterpreted to have solidly Catholic meaning."
Connecticut is not alone among states in allowing Wicca to be practiced and discussed in prisons.
Missouri, North and South Carolina, California, and Wisconsin are just a few of the states that allow Wiccan volunteers minister to prisoners.
Wisconsin went so far as to promote a witch to the full-time position of prison chaplain. The promotion caused some uproar among politicians and clergy.
"I would think in some ways from a religious standpoint, it might actually put inmates in a position that talking to (a Wiccan) is contrary to what some of their own religious beliefs might be," Wisconsin Republican state Rep. Scott Walker told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel in December 2001.
Wicca is also not the only non-mainstream faith permitted in prisons by the Connecticut Department of Correction. Volunteers who practice Santeria also work inside the prisons.
Polce says the department is open to many religions as long as they don't cause a security risk, which is something correction officials look for in their research.
Inmates like Christine are free to sit with their spiritual guides, but are still denied permission for anything more elaborate than casual visits.
When Blue visits Christine she is not allowed to bring anything into the room, but Christine is allowed to bring her books, which are ordered from outside bookstores approved by the department.
Christine says she has a tarot card deck, books, and a tribal drumming tape she uses to practice her craft.
She says while meditating one day on her bunk she used the fan in the window to represent the wind. Blue says she is impressed by Christine's ability to use the objects in her prison environment to practice.
For example, during a recent visit Christine told Blue that the "Hanged Man" tarot card had been appearing in her readings.
"Surrender. It's not my will, but thine," Blue said, meaning Christine should give in to universal forces and not fight fate.
The message wasn't lost on the inmate, and she said, "Having you in my life has made such a difference."
Christine then expressed remorse for her crime with tears running down her face, and Blue held her hand.
"You're the best thing that could have ever happened to me," Christine said.
