Chapter One Roots in Manila
I was born in Manila in October of 1962, the seventh child in what would eventually become a family of eleven. My father, Paulino Castorillo, was a professor at Feati University in the Marine Engineering department, and my mother, Remedios Leabres Castorillo, was the heartbeat of our home—a devoted wife, a faithful servant of the Lord, and the woman who first taught me to fold my hands in prayer. To some, our lives might have looked like ones of poverty. We had no house to call our own, no car to take us to places, not even a bicycle to share among the children. But to me, it never felt that way. My parents’ love, their commitment to one another, and their faith in God gave us something money could never buy: a sense of belonging, of dignity, and of hope. My father carried the heavy responsibility of being the sole breadwinner for such a large family. He was a quiet man of discipline and intellect, respected in his field, and yet at home, he carried himself with humility. My mother, on the other hand, filled our home with the fragrance of prayer. She was the one who gathered us children and took us to church, who taught us to pray before we even fully understood the meaning of the words. Looking back, I realize how much of the person I became was shaped by her gentle persistence in pointing us to Jesus Christ. Still, life on the streets of Manila was far from gentle. The neighborhood I grew up in was loud, chaotic, and unforgiving. Toughness was the currency of survival, and every boy quickly learned to defend himself or risk being trampled. I saw things as a child that many would not believe—men fighting in the open streets with machetes, neighbors stealing openly from delivery trucks in broad daylight, the casual acceptance of crime as if it were a normal part of life. I was no exception to the influence of my surroundings. Although I went to church faithfully, I thought stealing was nothing more than a game. Everyone did it, and to a boy’s eyes, it seemed harmless fun. Yet in my heart, a tension began to form between the prayers my mother taught me and the streets that tried to shape me. By the time I was in elementary school, I felt the weight of responsibility for our family. Weekends found me pushing a heavy cart down the streets, selling boiled corn to passersby. My small body strained under the effort, but my heart swelled with pride when I placed the twenty pesos I had earned into my mother’s hands. That money, humble as it was, became a way of helping to feed the family—often with the very leftover corn from the cart. Looking back, I marvel at the quiet strength of my parents. Eleven children with different personalities, different quirks, and endless appetites—how did they do it? I imagine the daily struggle to stretch what little we had into enough. And yet, despite the chaos around us and the scarcity within our walls, my parents gave us the gift of love and the foundation of faith. A pivotal event happened when I was twelve years old—an experience that forever changed my perspective on life and faith. One night, I was struck with excruciating stomach pain. I moaned in agony as my parents rushed to help me. But this was during Martial Law, when the streets were deserted at night due to strict curfews. With no public transport available, my father and mother took turns carrying me—an entire twelve-year-old boy—through the dark and silent streets of Manila. They walked for hours until they reached San Lazaro Hospital, only to be told there were no beds available. Refusing to give up, they carried me further, finally arriving at Santo Tomas Hospital, where the nuns took me in. The next day, I underwent emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. The doctors explained that my appendix had burst, poisoning my blood. They had to remove both my large and small intestines, washing them before placing them back. My survival was a 50/50 chance at best. But through the fervent prayers of my parents, family, and friends, I lived. It took nearly three months before I was discharged from the hospital. The doctor told my parents plainly: “Your son is lucky to be alive.” When I walked out of that hospital, my heart overflowed with gratitude. I went straight to the church and, with all the sincerity a twelve-year-old boy could muster, committed my life to God. I felt certain that my survival was not random— it was a miracle, and God had spared me for a purpose. Of course, being young, that commitment wavered. By the time I entered high school, I began drifting away, pulled into the temptations and darkness around me. I won’t recount the details, for they bring no glory to God. But I will say this: even in my wandering, the memory of my near-death and miraculous healing never left me. It would one day serve as a reminder that my life was not my own—it belonged to God.