Small, kind words, from pure, innocent souls are never lost. They are the seeds of rare flowers, whose blossom we shall know beyond the grave.
I was biking along the river road the other day when something suddenly caught my eye. It was a small bush on whose branches were arrayed the most delicate five petaled blossoms, all in clusters of pale pink and white. I stopped in my stride, even though the rain was coming down heavily, and examined the shrub, witnessing to its beauty. I was reminded of a passage in Hind's feet on High Places, where Much-Afraid sees a small beautiful flower in the crevices of a rocky cliff. All alone, this blossom exists where no people tread, and has no one to exude beauty towards. So Much-Afraid bends down and asks; "Little red flower, why do you extend your petals and send forth fragrance on the little trodden path, where none will behold it?" I don't remember the flower's answer, but I have one of my own. That nothing done out of Beauty, or Truth, or in Goodness, will ever be forgotten, or lost, or passed over. It's the same concept with redemptive suffering. Our actions and words have meaning beyond the passing earthly image, because humans are transcendental beings. We have both the spiritual and the physical intertwined within us, and constituting our nature.