My job for the past thirty-five years has taken me into many of the nooks and crannies of Orange County. Every so often I will find respite from the haste of the day in Our Lady of Guadalupe church located in the Delhi district of Santa Ana. It’s a small and tidy church sharing its shady intersection with a liquor store, a fenced off vacant lot and a dilapidated house. A while back, as I was approaching the entrance, I heard the sound of yelling and crying from within. Cautiously, I peered in and saw a young Latina woman on her knees at the base of the sanctuary facing the crucifix. Rivers of tears flooded her face and with arms outstretched she seemed to be begging our crucified Lord for help. A loved one ill? A wayward son? The loss of a job? I saw in this brave and humble woman a tortured soul in faith’s sweet spot. Deeply rooted faith. Raw unfiltered prayer. Her cross led her to the Crucified One who holds the mystery of suffering and resurrection in his outstretched hands.