About Us

I grew up in a world where God was everywhere, yet rarely truly known. In Sicily, Catholicism is not a choice but a given. As a child I went faithfully to church with my parents, week after week, and in those years I knew God as a quiet, solemn presence watching over us, even when we were not consciously seeking Him. Until the age of thirteen, that was my reality: a boy who prayed without doubt and believed without questioning.

Then, slowly and almost unnoticed, I began to drift away. Not because I was angry with God, but because life began to offer me other promises — power, recognition, money, and control. As my world grew larger, my faith grew smaller. I did not abandon it deliberately; I simply let it go, as if it were something I no longer needed. Somewhere along the way I began to think that I myself had taken God's place. In the world I entered, where violence and loyalty became law, I started to believe that I was the one who could judge, who could punish, who could decide who had value and who did not.

That way of thinking took me far — but it did not bring me peace.

Then came the day my body betrayed me and my illusion of invincibility collapsed. The diagnosis of leukemia felt not like an illness, but like a sentence. I grew weaker by the day: my legs would no longer carry me, my voice faded, eating and drinking became impossible, and slowly I became trapped inside a body that no longer obeyed me. For the first time in my life, I had no power, network, influence or control. I was alone with my fear and my mortality.

In that complete emptiness, at a point where nothing could save me except something greater than myself, I turned to God. Not with beautiful words, not with rituals, but with desperation. I begged Him to let me live — not to justify my past, but because I felt that my story was not yet finished. It was January 19, 2025.

What happened that night defies all logic. As I lay there, half in fear and half in surrender, I felt a presence moving slowly over my legs, as if someone were gently touching me. At first I was terrified, convinced that this was the moment of my death, but that fear gave way to a deep, inexplicable calm — a peace that did not seem to belong to this world. I felt seen, known, and held in a way I had never experienced before.

The next morning I stood up. I could walk. I could speak. I could eat and drink. The doctors had no explanation. I had only one: God had touched me and shown me that He truly exists. In that moment I was not ashamed of my weakness, but of my disbelief and my many years of arrogance. I understood that I was not God, had never been God, and had no right to take His place.

From that day on, I chose to live my life differently — not from power, but from gratitude. Everything I do today, I do with the awareness that my life was given back to me, not so that I might glorify myself, but so that I might serve others with the help of Our Lord.