This time of your sojourn on Earth is but a minute in the Vastness of Eternity. It is not even a minute. It is the blink of an eye.

So, what is the value of something so short-lasting, you ask. What is the difference of your appearing on Earth or not appearing? And when your body leaves the Earth and is forgotten, what did it matter? If this worldly life is but a dream, what is the significance of it? Is there significance?

You can read a book, beloveds. It can be a book of fiction. Your eyes are glued to it. And when you turn the last page, the book is over. And, yet, would you say that it had no significance?

The book held great significance for you. It was important to you as you read it. You wanted to know what happened. You wanted to understand the characters. You had come to love them. Even the unworthy ones held a certain worthiness in your heart.

You could say the book was not essential to you, yet there was an essence of it that was. It held meaning for you. It stirred something.

With the novel, you traveled without leaving your chair. You traveled to another time or another place. You met people and situations you had not met before. You grappled with something you had not grappled with before. For a while, you live a life you had never lived before.

When you finish a good book, you may sigh, glad and sorry it is over. The story has left you with something of itself. You may forget the book, the characters. You may forget its name. You may forget you ever read it, yet it has left its indelible mark on you. You do not have to know where it is marked and what it affects. You do not even have to know it has made its mark.

It becomes like a refrain of music, so delicately played, almost imperceptible, a vague stirring, an unmemory.

And so is Human life. It makes no difference, and yet it is all the difference in the world. In the world. To the world. To Me.

Life without you would have been a different life. You do not know, perhaps never knew, all whom you affected, and are affecting still. Even when the memories of you are gone, you are not. Of course, you are an entire intact Being regardless, and, like the good novel, you have made your mark in the world.

Whatever character you played, you played it well. Be it hero or villain, no one could play it so well as you. How can one Being play so many roles, you ask, and what can their significance be when the role fades?

No one has to be remembered to have played their part. All the playbills can be lost, and it doesn’t matter.

You were here. And something occurred because you were. You were a stitch you wove on the fabric of the universe. The whole experience on Earth is but a dream, but what a dream it is! Who could have conceived such an adventure, so many simultaneous adventures, so many adventures seen from so many points of view, endless adventures that yet have new casts of characters and new plays, all new, never beheld before.

All the plays are morality plays, and all the plays have their story to tell. There is a cast of thousands, of trillions, more than trillions. All plays are affected by every other play, and the whole configuration of life would not have been the same without you.