There are very few photographs of me as a child. Actually, that's not completely accurate--there are several pictures of the backs my hands, as they are shielding my face from the "evil eye" that was the lens of my parent's Kodak Instamatic. There are a few of my torso and legs as I scramble to hide behind my very photogenic older brother.

There are some home movies of me standing between my siblings, bawling my eyes out, begging my parents to turn off the bright lights and let me end the torture of being filmed. I suppose my poor parents finally gave up, because in the rest of the home movies there are two black-haired, olive-skinned, brown-eyed, beautiful, robust children mugging for the camera, but the skinny, pale dishwater-blond with the hazel eyes is nowhere to be seen. I don't blame my parents one bit. I'm sure I made it hell for them to try to capture me on film.

I've known forever that I don't look like my family. My maternal grandmother was one-half Native American. My siblings, who are my parents' biological children got all the great physical features: high cheekbones, dark eyes, great thick brownish-black hair, gorgeous olive skin.

I hate to be photographed. It still is torture to me.

The little congregation that I serve is having our new photo directory compiled this week--the first directory in five years. As the pastor, it is incumbent upon me to have my photograph in the damn thing not once, but twice: once with my lovely family, and once on the Staff page. Last night was our turn. I threw up yesterday in anticipation. I cried in the car on my way home afterwards.

I look at a photograph of myself and I think, "That's not me." There are very few photographs on display in our home. OEH says to me, "What if you died tomorrow--how would our kids remember what you looked like?"

It's difficult for me to explain, but I don't care if my kids remember what I look like. I want them to remember what it was like for me to rock them to sleep, kiss their boo-boos, talk with them about the mundane/important stuff as I shuttled them around in the car for miles on end. I want them to have an image of my voice as I told them I loved them on the phone long-distance from the other side of the world, and I hope they remember the smell of the kitchen (for days) when I make the one dish everyone agrees on: Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic.

None of that requires film.