Grasshopper and BBQ Ribs

They call him “Grasshopper.”

I don’t know his government name and if I were to ask around the prison, I doubt anyone else does. Just Grasshopper.

Grasshopper has spent more time in prison than anyone I’ve ever met. Over fifty years. He’s a short guy with a mean attitude.

Grasshopper doesn’t like me. He is one of the prison’s orderlies, meaning, he’s essentially tasked with doing the bidding of the prison’s administration. He walks staff down the hallway, conducts inspections of the dorms, and wakes the other men up each day. I’ve heard some nasty rumors about him from the other men.

Every time Grasshopper sees me, he calls out condescendingly, “Plant man is here!” Since he’s an orderly, he’s not allowed to be in our horticulture class because he has to be available at all times to assist the prison’s staff. I know he doesn’t hate me personally, but he resents me because I run the horticulture class that he can’t join and feels like he’s missing out.

A few weeks ago, HeartBound’s horticulture class was graduating from their inaugural course at this particular prison. As always, I worked with the prison staff to arrange for a celebration luncheon and graduation ceremony. I decided that this graduation would be a little special considering that we had spent the entire winter outside constructing a greenhouse in the rain, wind, and cold. The men had earned something special. Baby back ribs, corn, and asparagus to be exact. The staff was kind enough to lend us a grill that we could use that day.

The sweet smell of barbeque filled the garden area. The men gathered around the grill licking their chops at the feast before them. Whenever we grill out, I let a different person man the grill so they can all get some experience and have pride in the food. At the edge of the garden, I noticed Grasshopper trying to act like he didn’t see us all gathered around the grill. I looked at the men. Five graduates, three new students. We had six racks of ribs (thank you Costco) and plenty of vegetables. More than enough food for these eight guys. I swallowed my pride and called to Grasshopper. He perked up like he hadn’t been secretly giving us the side eye.

“Grasshopper, do you want some food?” I asked. “Food? For me? I mean if you’re offering, I won’t say no.” He was trying to play it cool.

After all our students had made their own plates, I put together a plate for Grasshopper. The sun beat down on us; I was sweating through my shirt. This was my second prison meal of the day, third that week. I’d spent hours cooking and driving food across the state to feed and celebrate 75 incarcerated learners. I was hungry too, but my personal policy is to never eat the food I bring to prison. How could I take from men, women, and boys who have nothing, who rarely ever get to eat like this?

The ribs fell off the bone. Cobs of corn were chucked into our compost bin. A new student, “Email,” exclaimed, “Man this feta stuff on the salad is good! I can’t believe I always been afraid of it.” I laughed.

Grasshopper finished his plate which I quickly replenished with seconds. After some gardening work and cleanup, I prepared to leave the prison. Smiles shone on everyone’s faces. On my way out, Grasshopper approached me. His words were solemn. “I want to thank you. That food…” His voice trailed off. I could hear his voice begin to crack. “I never had baby back ribs before. Thank you.”

My head spun. “Grasshopper, you’re telling me you’ve never had ribs before? They’re my favorite food!” He replied quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life in chains. Locked up at 15. Never had ribs before I was locked up and never had them since.” Until today.

He walked me to the hallway. His whole attitude and demeanor towards me had changed. For once, he was kind to me.

In the parking lot, I thought of all that had occurred that day. I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, exhausted and not looking forward to all that I had ahead of me. Two meals to cook, four hours of driving, hot sun.

Then it hit me. I don’t have to do any of this. I get to do all of this. I get the privilege to serve men and women like Grasshopper. I get the privilege to bring Light to a dark place. I get the privilege to introduce those in chains to foods they’ve never had before. I get the privilege to share the Gospel. I don’t have to do anything. I get to.

What a blessing that is.

In East of Eden, John Steinbeck writes, “In uncertainty, I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted shortcuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved, his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try to live so that our death brings no pleasure to the world. We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respond, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is.”

Grasshopper, and every man and woman and child in prison, just want to be loved like you and me. They want to be good.

Let us all try to live in such a way that our deaths bring no pleasure to the world. Let us all write beautiful stories. Let us all feast and rejoice in the fact that we are loved by God.

Thank you for being a part of HeartBound’s story. Goodness is indeed immortal. Hallelujah.