Malawi orphan seeking longer life in Chicago
Cathleen Falsani/Religion News Service
Issue date: 6/7/09 Section: Divine Intervention
CHICAGO - Even bumper-to-bumper traffic at rush hour can be a blessing - when you see it through the eyes of a child who has never seen it before.
One recent afternoon, on our way back to the suburbs from downtown Chicago, where he had his first piece of pizza and saw a Ferris wheel for the first time, Vasco squealed with delight every time a train roared past our car, down the middle of the expressway.
When he spotted an African-American man waiting on the train platform, he rolled down the window, waved and shouted in his native Chichewa, "Hey brother!"
His giggling is music. His joy is infectious. Vasco Sylvester, a 10-year-old AIDS orphan from Malawi, arrived in Chicago earlier this month after more than two days of travel on three international flights - his first trip on a plane.
For 20 months, we have been working to bring this sweet boy from the poorest country in the world here so he can undergo life-saving heart surgery.
My husband and I met Vasco in the fall of 2007 while traveling in Africa. He is an extraordinary child with a spirit as kind as it is fierce. We fell in love with him immediately.
There have been too many ups and downs along the roller coaster journey to recount. But when he emerged from customs at O'Hare Airport, all of them faded from memory.
"Moni!" we cried, welcoming him in his language. Our "wee man," as we have come to call Vasco, walked into view tugging a small rolling suitcase behind him and flanked by his 32-year-old traveling companion and caretaker, Macdonald "Mac" Nkhutabasa, and staffers from United Airlines, which graciously paid for Vasco's and Mac's flight to Chicago.
"Hello auntie, how are you?" Vasco said, grinning and putting his hand in mine. "Zikomo," he added quietly, meaning "Thank you." Words fail me when it comes to explaining how that felt.
When we first met Vasco, he was terribly sick, his heart thunk-thunking like a jack rabbit even when he was resting. He was short of breath, would sweat in the shade, and his beautiful, dark eyes were rheumy and sunken. He's no longer as fragile as he once was, yet because of the hole in his heart, every day he's alive is a gift. A team of doctors offered to treat Vasco if we could just get him here. When they complete their miraculous work, we expect Vasco to live a long, healthy life.
One recent afternoon, on our way back to the suburbs from downtown Chicago, where he had his first piece of pizza and saw a Ferris wheel for the first time, Vasco squealed with delight every time a train roared past our car, down the middle of the expressway.
When he spotted an African-American man waiting on the train platform, he rolled down the window, waved and shouted in his native Chichewa, "Hey brother!"
His giggling is music. His joy is infectious. Vasco Sylvester, a 10-year-old AIDS orphan from Malawi, arrived in Chicago earlier this month after more than two days of travel on three international flights - his first trip on a plane.
For 20 months, we have been working to bring this sweet boy from the poorest country in the world here so he can undergo life-saving heart surgery.
My husband and I met Vasco in the fall of 2007 while traveling in Africa. He is an extraordinary child with a spirit as kind as it is fierce. We fell in love with him immediately.
There have been too many ups and downs along the roller coaster journey to recount. But when he emerged from customs at O'Hare Airport, all of them faded from memory.
"Moni!" we cried, welcoming him in his language. Our "wee man," as we have come to call Vasco, walked into view tugging a small rolling suitcase behind him and flanked by his 32-year-old traveling companion and caretaker, Macdonald "Mac" Nkhutabasa, and staffers from United Airlines, which graciously paid for Vasco's and Mac's flight to Chicago.
"Hello auntie, how are you?" Vasco said, grinning and putting his hand in mine. "Zikomo," he added quietly, meaning "Thank you." Words fail me when it comes to explaining how that felt.
When we first met Vasco, he was terribly sick, his heart thunk-thunking like a jack rabbit even when he was resting. He was short of breath, would sweat in the shade, and his beautiful, dark eyes were rheumy and sunken. He's no longer as fragile as he once was, yet because of the hole in his heart, every day he's alive is a gift. A team of doctors offered to treat Vasco if we could just get him here. When they complete their miraculous work, we expect Vasco to live a long, healthy life.
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