On the outskirts of Tecate, Mexico, a small crew of volunteers is raising the frame of a one-room house. Morning sun glints off unfinished wood; the smell of cement hangs in the air. Among them is Lisa Frank, sleeves rolled up, her hands steady on a wooden beam as it's set into place.
Frank, who runs a car-donation business in Southern California, doesn't arrive as an executive or benefactor but as another pair of hands. "You lose track of time," she says quietly. "You just keep building until it feels like the day is done."
Roots of a Calling
Frank grew up in Northern California and took her first job at a vehicle-donation center while still in high school. She followed the company south for college, studying sociology with plans to teach. Academia didn't hold her long. After earning her master's degree, she realized that the intersection of logistics and compassion—the mechanics of turning an old car into tangible help—was where she belonged.
In 2009, she and a colleague started their own venture, now called Kars-R-Us. Over time, the company's success gave her the freedom to pursue volunteer work more deeply. "The business side was always about creating access," she says. "But volunteering showed me what that access actually does for people."
Lessons from the Field
The first time Frank traveled to Guatemala for a medical mission, she expected to assist in a small way—handing out supplies, taking notes. What she found instead were lessons in endurance and grace. She watched local doctors improvise with limited equipment,
families walking miles for treatment. "You start to see resilience everywhere," she says. "People who keep showing up for one another even when the system doesn't."
Back in California, those experiences shape the way she leads and gives. She serves on the boards of community programs, including Claremont Meals on Wheels and the Rotary Club in Glendora. Friends say she rarely turns down a volunteer shift.
Perspective in Practice
Frank insists she gains as much as she gives. The physical work—the repetitive lift of lumber, the sorting of donated food, the long hours outdoors—offers a kind of reset.
"When you're doing something that's not about you, the rest of life falls into perspective," she says.
Her approach to generosity is deliberately unglamorous. No speeches, no ribbon-cuttings. Just the steady practice of participation. "Most people don't need a hero," she says. "They just need help that shows up on time."
A Life Oriented Toward Others
At home in Glendora, Frank balances her business with raising her eleven-year-old daughter. Weekend hikes replace construction shifts; family dinners substitute for field meals. Yet the impulse is the same—to stay present, to look outward.
Travel has reinforced that view. In Tecate, she learned that building a house isn't only about shelter; it's about dignity. In Guatemala, she learned that medicine can begin with listening. And in her own city, she's learned that consistency is the most powerful form of generosity.
"I'm not trying to change the world," she says. "I'm just trying to do my part and keep learning from the people who let me help."
Continuing the Work
There is no grand plan for what comes next—just another trip, another project, another chance to lend a hand. Frank says that's the point.
"Service isn't a campaign," she says. "It's something you build on, day by day." As the sun sets over the Tecate hills, the volunteers gather their tools and look at the rising frame of the house.
It isn't finished, but it stands—evidence of many small efforts joined together.
For Lisa Frank, that's what hope looks like: something built by ordinary hands, strong enough to hold.
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