When God Called a Boy by Name
I was thirteen and drowning in my own questions. That summer evening in 2005, sitting in a cramped worship hall with peeling paint and rough wooden benches worn smooth by countless seekers, I felt like the loneliest kid in the world.
The speaker’s voice cut through my noise: “See, I set before you today life and prosperity, death and destruction… Now choose life, so that you and your children may live… For the Lord is your life.” (Deuteronomy 30:15-20)
The words hit me like lightning. Not theological lightning—personal lightning. God wasn’t speaking to ancient Israel. He was speaking to Giovanni Vitale, thirteen years old, sitting on that rough bench, afraid of everything and nothing all at once.
That night, I wept. Hard. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness—from recognition. From coming home to a Father I’d been searching for without knowing it.
I chose life. I chose Him. I gave Him everything I had, which wasn’t much, but it was mine.
The Long Road Home
Medical school felt like wandering in the wilderness. Years of studying, memorizing, proving myself. But underneath every textbook, every late-night study session, every clinical rotation, was a whisper: “Trust Me. This is part of the plan.”
When I specialized in child and adolescent psychiatry, something beautiful began to unfold. In the intricate pathways of developing minds, I started seeing fingerprints. His fingerprints. The same God who called me in that worship hall was the God designing neural connections, orchestrating healing, breathing life into wounded spirits.
Science wasn’t separate from faith—it was worship in a lab coat.
Where Healing Meets Heaven
Every day, I sit with families whose worlds are breaking apart. Parents who pray themselves to sleep, wondering if their child will ever be whole. Children whose minds feel like foreign countries to their own hearts.
And in those sacred spaces of vulnerability, I see Him again. The same Jesus who healed the sick, who touched the untouchable, who said “Let the little children come to Me.”
Through devotionals that have reached thousands on YouVersion, God has let me whisper His love across the globe. Through books that bridge the gap between lab and sanctuary. Through podcasts where I fumble toward truth alongside listeners who are also seeking. Through songs that carry prayers I’m too broken to speak.
Each word I write, each melody I hum, each family I serve—it’s all pointing. Always pointing. Away from me. Toward Him.
Still Thirteen Inside
Some nights, I’m still that thirteen-year-old boy on the rough wooden bench, overwhelmed by how much God loves this broken world. How He uses broken people like me to carry His light.
I have an MD and MBA, speaking engagements. But in my quiet moments, behind my desk chair where I meet with families, I remember: I’m just Giovanni. The kid who said yes in a worship hall. The voice that learned to point beyond itself.
John the Baptist had one job: point to Jesus. As a Christian, I carry that legacy, that responsibility.
Whether I’m sitting across from a frightened parent, writing a devotional at 5 AM, or crafting melodies that carry prayer—everything points beyond itself. Beyond me. Toward the Light that first captured a thirteen-year-old’s heart.
I am not the Light. I just know where to look.
My name is Giovanni.
The voice that points beyond itself.