Tucson Cathedral

During my 2015 SW High Desert Photo Tour, I found myself in Tucson when someone casually mentioned a church nearby — no name, no details, just a suggestion. It was enough. After a brief disagreement with my GPS, I managed to find it. The parking lot was quiet, the sun heavy in the afternoon sky. I slipped in through a side door, expecting nothing, really.

What I stepped into stopped me cold.

Only a few people were there, scattered in private corners of prayer, tucked away like votive flames in a great cathedral of stillness.

The chamber opened around me like a breath held in reverence — cool air, dim light, a hush that wasn’t silence exactly, but something deeper. I’m not Catholic, but it didn’t matter. That kind of beauty speaks to the bones, not the denomination. The ceiling soared above me in a perfect arch, paneled with hand-painted symbols, each one a quiet gesture of devotion. It was clear: the architect didn’t want you looking forward. He wanted your eyes pulled upward.

I walked softly through the nave, letting the space reveal its geometry to me. After ten or fifteen minutes of quiet searching, it became obvious that the view from the rear — looking down the center aisle and up into that intricate canopy — was the moment. The shot. It felt less like taking a picture and more like bearing witness.

Only a few people were there, scattered in private corners of prayer, tucked away like votive flames in a great cathedral of stillness. I didn’t disturb them. I didn’t speak. I simply made the image and left — quieter than I’d arrived, carrying something more than I came in with.

This wasn’t a planned stop. It wasn’t on the itinerary. But sometimes, the most meaningful photographs aren’t the ones you chase. They’re the ones that find you when you’re paying attention.

What sacred or historic space stops you in your tracks, and why?

— Lawrence

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