I was born after nine long years of waiting.
My parents did everything they could to have a child—doctor consultations, fertility treatments, even two failed IVFs. They were healthy, but still, no child. The doctors called it “unexplained infertility.”
But behind the silence was the slow, deliberate hand of God.
Their story wasn’t built on chance—it was written by divine orchestration.
A Love Anchored in Trust
My mom had been in several relationships before meeting my dad—seven or eight, she would say—but despite knowing him for the shortest time, she had peace. Their first date was in a church, a quiet sign that God was already present in their story.
Interestingly, my dad wasn’t her usual “type.”
But there was something about him—his humility, quiet intelligence, simplicity, and the sense of security he carried—that moved her.
It wasn’t an attraction in the typical sense. It was conviction.
And in that conviction, she chose him.
They married on February 10, 1990, after just eleven months of dating (technically nine, if you count their civil wedding in November 1989).
She was certain—not because of perfect timing, but because of deep trust.
A Divine Match
My dad, on the other hand, once believed he was being called to the priesthood. He prayed fervently for guidance in the U.P. chapel, meditating with Jesus and the Blessed Virgin Mary. That’s when he received a quiet but clear answer:
His wife’s name would be Maria.
At a seminar in March 1989, he met a woman named Leny. He was drawn to her, but at that point, he had no idea she was the one God had spoken about.
It was only later, when he began courting her, that he discovered her full name: Maria Lenida.
For him, it wasn’t just a coincidence. It was confirmation.
A quiet whisper from heaven now echoed through a real person.
Their love story wasn’t something they stumbled into—it was something God had authored.
The Waiting
Since my parents were in their late twenties—the “ideal” age to start a family—they expected children to come naturally, especially since my dad came from a big family. But years passed with no pregnancy.
Despite the heartbreak and medical intervention, my dad held on to a promise he believed God had spoken while praying the rosary:
“You will have your own child of flesh and blood.
Your first child will be a son. Your secondborn will be a son.”Jokingly, my dad asked, “Will I have a daughter?”
And God answered, “After the third.”
This dream became my dad’s anchor—one that would later become mine, too, as I wrestled with the thought of God’s existence.
Even when my mom grew weary and discouraged, my dad kept praying.
Kept trusting.
And God kept sending signs.
The Signs
In Hong Kong, a fortune teller once told my mom she would have a baby. She laughed it off and did not believe it.
Back in Manila, during Pope John Paul II’s visit in January 1995, a religious woman—a devotee of the Sto. Niño—visited their home and offered to pray for them. She shared what she believed was a prophetic revelation: that my parents would have a child in 1999.
Still, they continued trying to conceive on their own terms and timeline. But the disappointment lingered.
After their IVF failed in 1997, my mom broke down in tears out of frustration and defeat. She told my dad that if no child came by the year 2000, they would begin considering adoption.
It was around that time they decided to stop all medical interventions altogether—choosing instead to surrender their desires and wait on God, trusting that if it was His will, He would fulfill it in His time.
A Promise Fulfilled
On June 13, 1998, something unseen finally stirred—a prayer answered.
After eight years of waiting, they found out they were pregnant with me.
My parents went straight to the nearby church and praised God, for He had answered.
While I was still in the womb, my OB-GYN thought I was a girl—my genitals weren’t visible on the scan (lol—I was already a little feminine from the get-go, haha).
But my dad knew I was a boy. That was God’s promise.
In fact, he even wrote to his sister in Australia, saying he was a bit sad—because God had said his first child would be a son, not a daughter.
Then on January 6, 1999, a scan finally confirmed it: I was a baby boy.
And once again, my father was overjoyed—and gave praise to God.
On February 8, 1999, I was born. My mom was 37 years old.
They named me Manuel Antonio—after my grandfather (Manuel) and my father (Antonio).
But my name held something more:
“Manuel,” derived from Emmanuel, means God with us.
And that’s exactly who He had been all along.
Overflowing Grace
But the story doesn’t end there.
Though I was an only child for two years, God fulfilled the rest of His promise.
My parents went on to have three more children:
Emilio Antonio, Ricardo Antonio, and finally, Maria Angelita.
My mom gave birth to my sister at 43.
God didn’t just give—He gave abundantly.
Our family became living proof that God doesn’t operate in delay—He moves in divine timing. He doesn’t just answer prayers—He writes redemption into the waiting.
As I look back, I see that my story echoes many others in Scripture:
Abraham and Sarah, who laughed at the thought of bearing a child in old age.
Zechariah and Elizabeth, who were “righteous in the sight of God” yet waited decades for John the Baptist.
Hannah, who wept in the temple, pleading for a son, and gave birth to the prophet Samuel.
Like them, my parents waited.
And like them, they were met by the faithfulness of a God who never forgets His promise.
Emmanuel
From the very beginning, my life has carried this truth:
God is with me.
Not only in my name, but in every season, every silence, and every miracle.
I am a child of promise—And this is my testimony that He’s still writing.
Share this post