If you drive south of Tampa, past the sprawl and into the humid, moss-draped pockets of Wimauma, people know the name Maurilio Ambrocio. Or they did. Nowadays, the small building that houses Iglesia de Santidad Vida Nueva—the church he led—stands largely quiet.
The story of how a 42-year-old father of five, a business owner, and a local spiritual leader ended up on a charter flight back to Guatemala is one that has rattled this corner of Florida. Honestly, it's a messy, complicated situation that doesn't fit neatly into a single political box.
The April Check-In That Changed Everything
It happened on April 17, 2025.
For twelve years, this was a routine. Maurilio Ambrocio would head to his annual appointment with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in Tampa. He had a "stay of removal," a piece of legal paperwork that basically said: We know you're here illegally, but you aren't a priority for deportation as long as you keep your nose clean and check in with us. He went in for that scheduled interview. He didn't come out.
His daughter, Ashley Ambrocio, has been vocal about the shock of that day. Imagine going to a government office to follow the rules, thinking you’re doing the right thing, only to be handcuffed and detained on the spot. ICE’s reasoning was straightforward, if blunt: he was in the country illegally.
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Why now?
That’s the question everyone is asking.
The Department of Homeland Security, through spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin, pointed to Maurilio’s history. He first entered the U.S. at age 15. He was actually deported once before, back in 2006, but returned shortly after. In 2012, he was convicted of driving without a license. By 2013, a judge had issued a final removal order.
For over a decade, the government let him stay under supervision. But in the current enforcement climate—often referred to as Operation Safeguard—the "grace period" for people with old removal orders has vanished. The goal for ICE has reportedly shifted toward a high volume of daily arrests, and Maurilio, despite his clean record for the last 12 years, was an easy target.
A Family and a Church Left Behind
Maurilio wasn't just a name on a docket. He was the primary breadwinner for a wife and five children, all of whom are U.S. citizens. His youngest is just 12.
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- The Business: He ran a landscaping and handyman business.
- The Church: He pastored a congregation of about 50 people.
- The Community: Even his neighbors—some of whom, like Greg Johns, are staunch supporters of the administration’s broader policies—were devastated. Johns told reporters he voted for the very policies being enacted, but seeing them applied to a neighbor who helped him with propane and water during Hurricane Milton felt different. It felt personal.
While in detention in Tampa, Maurilio didn't stop being a pastor. Ashley mentioned that her father spent his time in the crowded holding cells preaching to other detainees. He told her about people "changing their way of living" because of the messages he shared behind bars.
But the physical toll was real. He lost weight. He got sick with whatever bug was circulating through the facility.
The Final Deportation to Guatemala
By July 2, 2025, the legal battles were over.
Maurilio Ambrocio was moved from Florida to New Orleans. From there, he was put on a charter flight with about 100 other Guatemalan nationals. When he landed in his home country, he hadn't lived there in over two decades.
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"I am very sad," he told the Tampa Bay Times shortly after his release in Guatemala. "But thank God I am free now."
There's a strange kind of relief in his words. Being "free" in a country you barely remember is better than being "locked up" in the country you call home. His daughter echoed this, saying that while the family's heart is "ripped out," they are glad he is no longer in a cell.
What This Means for the Wimauma Community
The arrest of Pastor Maurilio Ambrocio isn't just one man's problem. It has sent a ripple of fear through the agricultural and immigrant communities south of Tampa.
When a leader who follows the rules—attending every check-in, paying taxes, running a business—is suddenly taken, it changes the calculus for everyone else. People who were once willing to interact with authorities are now retreating into the shadows.
Actionable Reality for Families in Similar Situations
If you or someone you know is currently under a "stay of removal" or has a "final order of removal" from years ago, the landscape has shifted. Here is the reality of the situation right now:
- Routine Check-ins are High Risk: In the current environment, an annual check-in can lead to immediate detention. It is no longer "just a formality."
- Legal Counsel is Non-Negotiable: If you have an old removal order (even from 10 or 20 years ago), you need an immigration attorney to review your file immediately. Don't wait for the next appointment.
- Emergency Planning: Families need a "Plan B." This includes power of attorney for children and access to bank accounts if the primary breadwinner is detained. Ashley Ambrocio had to learn how to run a landscaping business and handle payroll overnight—most 19-year-olds aren't ready for that.
- Community Support: Local organizations in Tampa and Wimauma are increasingly focused on "Know Your Rights" training. These aren't just for people hiding; they are for people like Maurilio who think they are in the clear because they’ve been "good" for a decade.
The pews at Iglesia de Santidad Vida Nueva might be empty for now, but the conversation started by Maurilio’s deportation is just beginning. It forces a hard look at the difference between "the law" and "the community," and what happens when they collide in a small Florida town.