I am five feet tall, have lived in Seattle for decades without owning an umbrella, and photograph every face I find — in museums, on walls, carved into the ends of pews. These things are related.
Not the Second Coming—But Maybe Something Else
Maybe I wasn’t Jesus. Maybe no one is. Or maybe we all are—not as saviors, but as hands and feet, as hearts capable of kindness, as people who, in whatever small ways we can, bring light into the world.