Aline Barros - Pula Pula Lyrics

Video

Aline Barros e Cia - Pula Pula (Legendado)

Meaning & Inspiration

My hands are a little stiff this morning, the kind of ache that settles in when the dampness clings to the windowpane. I spent a good while looking at the dust motes dancing in the light, thinking about how we spend our younger years trying to be giants, and our older years just trying to stay upright.

Then I listened to Aline Barros, singing about being a giant with God. It’s a bright, bouncing thing, full of that specific, breathless joy that belongs to children who haven’t yet learned to worry about gravity or the cost of the popcorn.

There’s a line in there that caught me, sitting in the quiet: "Gira, gira sem parar / Com Deus eu sou gigante." (Spin, spin without stopping / With God I am a giant.)

It’s an easy sentiment to dismiss when you’re seventy, when your own spinning days feel like a distant memory, or perhaps a dizzying mistake you’d rather not repeat. We spend so much of our maturity trying to shrink our needs, trying to be small and humble and unobtrusive, that the idea of being a "giant" feels almost arrogant. But then I think of the little ones in the pews, their feet dangling off the oak benches, hearing that song. To them, it isn't about physical stature; it’s about the impossible reach of their faith.

Jesus, of course, was the one who told us that unless we become like children, we won't see the Kingdom. That isn't just a sweet suggestion. It’s a hard, tearing-down-the-walls command. Maybe the "giant" isn't someone who conquers the world, but someone who is big enough, in their own little spirit, to let God turn them upside down like a rollercoaster.

We forget that faith is supposed to give us a "frio na barriga"—that shiver in the stomach, that sudden drop in the gut when you realize you are falling, but you are falling into something safe.

Does this song sing when the lights go out? When the knees don't want to "pula" anymore? Honestly, I don’t know if it brings the same cheer then. Sometimes, the silence of a morning prayer is heavy, and "playing" feels like a foreign language. But there is a stubborn grace in the melody—a reminder that joy isn't something we grow out of; it’s something we’re supposed to carry back into the room once the noise of the "parquinho" fades.

Maybe being a giant, in the end, isn't about how tall we stand, but how much room we leave in our lives to be surprised by God. I’m not sure I’ll be jumping around today, but I might just sit here and let myself be a little bit dizzy, letting the Giver of life remind me that even the weathered and the tired are still invited to the party. The music stops eventually, but the invitation? That seems to be the only thing that doesn’t wear out.