FLOW

My heart sank when we entered the house our friends had secured for us. The process of finding a house was solid, as it took several months, with regular Zoom calls. Our friends visited the place and met the landlord about a month ago. Their initial feedback was that the landlord, in his early 70s, was verbose and calculating. Over the course of a month, the landlord kept changing his story to the point that we could no longer trust what he said. Still, we were willing to make it work, but deep down, something was bothering me.

Never mind the fact that the house looked different than the pictures we saw. Even the country neighborly drive to the house felt restrictive, which is the best word I can use, rather than open, spacious, and inviting. When we entered the house, the landlord was having lunch with his granddaughter, and that did not feel professional, as he knew we would be visiting for the first time. While the house was not necessarily messy, it felt old, stuffy, and dark. All the while, we were trying to see the brighter side, trying to overlook our initial unsaid feelings and concerns. The thought of breaking the contract never entered my mind.

As we were leaving, I knew I was disappointed and even discouraged. I was confused and felt stuck, which was the worst of all my emotions. A week later, I conversed with our friends and exchanged similar findings, which led to canceling the contract. It turned out that the landlord was breaking several contractual agreements, so it made it easy for our friends to break the contract. I remember sighing a huge relief.

Less than three days later, we found a house online, viewed it, and signed the contract. The process was swift and painless. At one point, the landlord said, “Thank you.” Even the real estate agent overseeing the rental said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. You will love this neighborhood.” “Thank you,” I responded, sensing genuine warmth and gratitude. I then told them that we know this neighborhood well since it was the first Yangpyeong area I fell in love with more than five years ago. “I do not need navigation to drive around the neighborhood,” I said confidently.

The house we will be moving into is a brand-new house, built less than a year ago. The landlord had been living there occasionally with a minimal footprint and belongings. It sits on a high hill impressively overlooking everything below, the valleys and even the small creek running in the not too distant, as one can still hear the water flowing. Of course, what this also means is that during winter, I need to be cognizant of spreading road salt before the snowfall. The landlord kindly explained how to salt the road leading up to our place, but my Southern California upbringing ignorance did not understand what I was to process. Thus, it remains homework to solve before the snowfall. And I just watched the news last night that it may snow in some high mountain regions in Korea as the temperature plummeted today.

Before our friends broke the contract with the first house, I muttered a complaint to God that our hearts need to be at peace as we host people and create a hospitable space. It was clear in my mind that I was not at peace with the first house, so I simply asked God to do something. Then the second house came into our purview, and now we are days away from moving into the new place. In hindsight, God protected us and also provided something above and beyond our expectations. Elohim Shomri and Jehovah Jireh!

The timeless biblical truth of “blessed to be a blessing” reminds me that blessing is a flow. We receive, so we let it flow out of us freely, to give. The first landlord, in a sense, refused to bless us, only taking more than what was rightfully his. The second landlord (and the real estate agent) is blessing us, eager to go above and beyond to make us feel at home. Our friends are a steady testimony of God’s faithfulness and blessing.

We are ready to let it flow, to become the conduit of flow. There is a striking contrast between two famous bodies of water in Israel: The Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee. The Dead Sea is “dead” because it refuses to flow and only receives. The Sea of Galilee teems with life because it simply acts as a conduit. Both are fed by the same source, the River Jordan, but one outlet is blocked, and the other is open.

The vision of hospitality is a flow.
Actually, the vision of life is a flow.
To live is to flow.
To flow is to live.