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Sara Gomez Lopez has lived in Tijuana nearly all the 43 years of her life, and has the scars to show it. A domestic abuse survivor and the single mother of three daughters, she opened a shelter in 2003 for women fleeing violent homes. Sara is part of her city's network of culture-shapers fighting some grim statistics: 843 murders in 2008, a 300 percent increase in petty crime in 2007, and 75 percent of women at risk for domestic abuse, to cite a few.

But in the face of battle, Sara believes the best place to be is the center of God's will: "He put me here, and I'm going to be here until he doesn't want me here anymore."

Part of Sara's fight means getting past the numbers and into the lives of hurting people. Meeting recently with local leaders at a conference on dating violence, Sara painted vivid images of some of the women at her shelter: one with her ear chewed off by a boyfriend; another with her jaw and legs broken; another with her uterus punctured.

"It's up to you to have a family without violence," she said, making a personal appeal to the audience of young professionals. "It's up to you to have a family the way God wants it to be."

On the front lines day after day, it took Sara traveling 1,600 miles north to a supporting church in Alberta, Canada, to finally break down. Billed as the inspirational speaker at the church's 2008 fundraiser, Sara locked herself in the bathroom, wondering aloud why she fought so hard for so few results.

"I'm done, God. I don't want to do this anymore," she cried out. "Tell me how you feel about my work. Is what I do pleasing to you?"

Later that evening, Sara gave her speech. But during worship, a pastor spoke a prophetic word to her—something the formerly cessationist Baptist believes sums up her life's calling:

"The Lion of Judah is roaring over your city. His heart is for justice for your city; he roars it over the city. You have not done everything you're supposed to. But he knows your heart and that you try and do whatever you can."

"Every time I get overwhelmed, I just envision a lion," says Sara. "But he needs people to claim that justice. I want to be one who listens to the lion and doesn't get overwhelmed with injustice."

Like her pastor-grandfather, who preached the gospel every night to Mexican ranchers, and her mother, Martha Lopez, who 45 years ago opened an orphanage for the children of abandoned mothers, Sara is one who listens to the lion.

I recently traveled with a short-term mission team from southwest Ohio to understand the ministry challenges that Sara, Martha, and their family face in one of the fastest-growing cities in Mexico. I quickly discovered that Tia Juana ("Aunt Jane"), which apocryphal sources trace to a local Indian woman known for her hospitality, is anything but hospitable.

Our first night in the city, while our group was dining at a taqueria, a "parking attendant" helped someone break into our van. My laptop, purse, and passport were stolen. A police report was filed; credit cards were canceled. Nothing else could be done, and I wondered why I had come to this "sad swell of humanity," as acclaimed novelist Luis Alberto Urrea once described his hometown.

I was still wondering as I awoke the next morning to roosters crowing, dishes clanging, and a voice leading a 6 A.M. Bible study with 15 teenagers in the dining hall where I was trying to sleep. Their closing prayer led into a breakfast of tortillas and frijoles. Then it was off to classes at a high school southwest of Soler, a middle-class neighborhood a block from the U.S.-Mexico border. The teens are residents of Ciudad de Refugio ("City of Refuge") orphanage. Their regimen of daily devotionals, twice-weekly church services, and chores trains them to be strong believers in a broken culture.

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October 2009, Vol. 53, No. 10