Snapshot 4

A bus bumps its way slowly down the dusty jungle road.  The windows are open- not by choice, but because they don't close.  Inside, there is a family.  Not a family by birth, but by choice.  As they bounce down the road, music drifts from the window.  The family members don't speak the same language, but that's okay.  They don't know all of the same songs, but that's alright.  As that bus bumps its way down the dusty jungle road, the members of this makeshift, multilingual family are all worshiping the same Jesus, and that's all that matters.

Snapshot 3

Grungy trampoline.  Breezy, steamy night.  Smoggy stars.  Limbs and hearts jumbled and intertwined.  Honest words.  Hot, salty tears.  Smoky air.  Car horns and mangy dogs.  Dust on the banana trees.  Shared water bottle.  Open souls.  Real conversation.  Genuine laughter.  Eternal connection.

Snapshot 2

The stars look the same here, but their patterns are different.  We lay on the trampoline and I think about myself, how I'm like those stars.  I look the same here, but my actions are different.  I smile more, laugh louder.  I hug more intensely, cry more easily.  My "comfort zone" is nearly non-existent.  I sing and dance.  I speak rapid Spanish.  I touch when I feel like it.  If the words pop into my head, I say them.  I look the same here, but my patterns are different.  This is who I really am.

Snapshot 1

Oh, Pucallpa.  Steamy, sweaty Sunday mornings full of unspeakable joy.  Dusty, noisy bus rides where we breathe through hankies and squinch our eyes shut between worship songs.  Late dinners in little restaurants, laughing and talking with the help of interpreters.  The most beautiful children you can imagine... brokenhearted and abandoned, leaning on us for an hour of God's love.  Bubbles floating through the dense jungle, accompanied by the laughter of Shipibo children and their young mothers.

In the midst of it all stands a gringa.  Back home, she hurts.  She's not known.  But here... here, she stands with a smile that could light up the night.  Here, she speaks for hours in broken Spanglish, often pausing to laugh from the deepest place in her heart.  Here, she's greeted with hugs and kisses every morning.  The tears are more ready here, they stand at the forefront.  Her heart is softer.  The sweat pours and the dust rolls, but she doesn't mind.  Here, she's home.

Snapshots

The next few posts that will be up are things I (Alyssa) wrote while at camp.  These are from my personal journal and the deepest place in my heart.  I hope that, as you read them, you sense at least a fraction of the passion I have for these people and this place.

I will also include a picture or two with each post, just to give you a chance to SEE some of Pucallpa, and our trip.  Many, many more pictures are posted on my facebook.

Thanks!

The port in Yarina.