Two years after the beginning - sayeth the algorithm.

   Last week I shared a rather cryptic "Two years ago today" memory on Facebook.    It was a Facebook app which prompts you from time to time.  It appears to be triggered by Facebook Algorithms, which are somewhat of a mystery to me, but basically they seem to read your "happy" memories and share them again with you at a later date.
 
    April 22nd, 2015:  Answering a question about Phil Lesh's bass that my neighbor Andy posted and there it was: "Facebook Memory - two years ago today."  Maari in the hospital bed, practicing her violin.  She was hooked up to the chemo machine and that was to be her final chemo as she would be declared cancer-free.  Seeing the picture again - thanks Facebook - definitely affected me.

   Not offering any context, it probably appeared I was grieving again to most of my friends.  While I was certainly in my dark place thanks to my Facebook memory, I was not going to stay there for long.

   Two years ago on April 22nd, 2013, I stayed at the hospital all night with Maari.  Two years later on April 22nd, 2015 it was a 12-hour day for this choir director, taking two Curtis choirs to the league large group contest and staying most of the day.

    Staring at the computer picture of Maari playing violin in the hospital bed, I recalled what happened that night in the children's cancer wing.  As I often did, I took a walk around the wing while Maari watched TV.

    On that night, I saw the Face of God.

    It had been a long time since I thought about that memory.

   When I left the wing and re-entered, a small child-patient looked up at me from behind the door.  Most adults aren't around many child cancer patients going though chemo, and for most, certain traits are hard to identify.  Gender, age, ethnicity, hair color - the chemo alters the outward appearance for most of these kids.  The chemo-child often appears to be genderless, his or her hair robbed by the chemo, their eyes seem bigger as there are no eye-brows.

    But I had been around so many of these children, I knew this child was an African-American boy about 10 years old.  Maari was often mistaken for a boy by those who didn't know - most little girls with cancer are.  The boy stared up at me when I opened the door.

    I looked into his eyes, thinking to myself this might be the last time I see a child cancer patient.  This was to be Maari's Final Night of Chemo, and I wondered what would happen to this little boy.  Would he be there a few more days, weeks, or months?  Would his cancer be cured?  I just kept thinking about how lucky we were as a family to be ending our cancer journey and getting our little girl back.

    As he looked back at me, it hit me - his face was the Face of God.  What was I supposed to do?  It was a sign, and I had no idea what it meant.  I smiled at him,  and he continued to watch me as I walked back to Maari's room.

   Fast forward two years later to last week.  I was conducting the high school girls' choir at contest, and we were performing Z. Randall Stoope's "The Poet Sings."  Usually I conduct this piece from the piano, but Margie had come in to play so I was able to face the group and conduct while they sang.

    There they stood - these young women singing beautifully, and one of my Healing moments occurred.  Behind them up above was a stain-glassed portrait of Jesus kneeling.  I noticed it at the same time the girls sang Stoope's opening text:

    "She's somewhere in the sunlight strong.
      Her tears are in the falling rain,
     She calls me in the wind's soft song,
     And with the flowers she comes again.

     The loneliness and misery
     Are silenced by a melody.
     She's somewhere and I hear her sing,
     Her words in timeless memory:

    Stay the course,
    Light a star,
    Change the world wher'er you are."

 And in a musical moment - the kind only music can do - I was transported to Maari's hospital room when she took her last breaths on August 31st, 2013.   I remember when she heaved and stopped breathing.

    I kissed her cheek, and said softly: "Daddy Loves you."

    A tear ran down her cheek, and I quickly grabbed a tissue and wiped it from her face, putting the tissue in my pocket.  Moments later she was gone.

    When I watched her pass, I remembered the beam of sunlight that came through the
 hospital room window.  It washed her face with light.

   The day after contest, I shared with the girls their singing meant so much more than they realized.  I saw Maari during the Stroope piece.

    She was standing in the sunlight.

    And she was fine.

    That night, Maari appeared on the computer screen in her hospital bed playing the violin.

   Two years ago.

   Two years ago I saw the Face of God.

   And I still don't know what it means.