When I first began spinning songs fifty years ago, I had not the merest aspirations for their longevity. They were just ways to give scripture a chance to live in people's throats. Having a cache of two hundred compiled, the passages come easily when I need them. 

Our son and his wife have put effort into transporting those tunes to the magical and invisible platform called Spotify. Having grown up with physical music makers like records, tapes, and CDs I am still at a loss for where the notes lay their little heads. Then another son spelled it out for me. 

"Mom, they are in a jukebox somewhere. A warehouse of computers has a file with your name on it, and if someone asks to hear them, they can."

There is no clunk of a quarter in the slot, but we get to choose what we want to hear. The intangible music somehow finds a home in a brick and mortar building. I get it. Kind of. 

The appeal of our songs is not dependent on the melodies, though they help. It is the power within the stories about a Good Samaritan, or Joseph's Coat. 

Somehow it sounds like how we can access those qualities that God is offering. If I want a few minutes of compassion, I pick that selection, and it flies through the air and arrives in my lap. 

And it doesn't even cost a quarter.