COMMENTARY: A little boy with a hole in his big heart

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 […]

(RNS1-APRIL18) Photo of the Gallatin River in Big Sky, Mont., to accompany RNS-FALSANI-
COLUMN, transmitted April 18, 2007. Religion News Service photo by Cathleen Falsani.

(RNS1-APRIL18) Photo of the Gallatin River in Big Sky, Mont., to accompany RNS-FALSANI-
COLUMN, transmitted April 18, 2007. Religion News Service photo by Cathleen Falsani.

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 native Chichewa. 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.

Vasco knows this. And he is grateful. He’s not afraid of what lies ahead in the coming weeks: tests and needles, surgery and a hospital stay in a country where he doesn’t speak the language. He’s a terribly bright, sentient child, and he is brave.

And he is loved. By us. By Mac. By friends and family and strangers he has never met and never will.

He knows this, too.

Every moment we’ve spent with Vasco in our home so far has been pure joy. Everything is new to him. Everything is exciting.

The smallest things seem to bring him epic pleasure. Among a small collection of toy cars and stuffed animals, the item he has become most attached to is a plastic red-white-and-blue pen with the words “Yes we can” on one side and “Obama” on the other. When you press the top of the pen, an audio recording of President Obama’s election-night victory speech plays impressively loud for such a small speaker.


Vasco carries it in the pocket of his too-big jeans and presses the button repeatedly. We know he doesn’t understand what Obama is saying and simply enjoys a talking toy.

I didn’t cry when Vasco arrived at O’Hare. And I didn’t cry after I tucked him into bed the first night, or when he took my hand crossing the street.

But as Vasco erupted into joyous giggles as the train passed our gridlocked car for the umpteenth time, I heard Obama say, “While we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes We Can.”

And the tears came.

(Cathleen Falsani is the author of “Sin Boldly: A Field Guide for Grace” and the upcoming “The Dude Abides: The Gospel According to the Coen Brothers.”)

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