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Search results for Before and After

Here are some photos I took on the day I went to look at the property. It might shock you to think I feel instantly in love but I did...it was perfect! I had the vision right away of what I wanted my shop to look like. I wish I took more photos during the renovation but it was hard to get good shots that showed you anything other than sheetrock going up. My smart friend who was in the movie business told me I should have taken videos of the progress...sure wish I had thought of that! Anyway, here are some before, during and after shots. Hope I'm not boring y'all to pieces!

Before of the Front Left Section

During

I added two walls in the front half of the shop to create two seperate sections.

After

Before of the Back Wall

During
I added a wall along the entire back of the building so I could put my office in the back. The barn door separates the two areas.

After

Before of the Front Right Section

During

After

During of Front Left Wall

After

Before (this section was demolished)

New Middle Room

Back Office

That's what she looks like for now! But things will be constantly changing...as you can see I am getting new merchandise in all the time.

(My trash pile this am.)

And I'm off to market (plus flea marketing) this week to find and create more! So come in and check it out for yourself!

Yesterday, I got to thinking about something that, contrary to natural expectation, filled me with such an amount of joy that I was pumping my fist in the air as I ran down a country road. I felt almost like I was flying off the ground.

God has been doing a tremendous amount in my life lately. I don't even know how to explain it. It's like he's broken in, finally, and I'm loving him and enjoying life in him and being filled to the point of bursting by the Holy Spirit. I've had more joy, more closeness to God, more wonder, more breakthrough, more healing, more realization of truth than I think I have ever, ever had in my life before. And all of it came about as a result of the most horrific breakup I could possibly have imagined.

I don't even know how to explain it. The only thing that comes closest to describing it is that magnificent verse in Romans 8, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

That's the only thing that can describe it. God took what was possibly the worst thing that could ever have happened to me, humanly speaking, and somehow has turned it into the absolute best thing that could ever have possibly happened to me, divinely speaking.

I was utterly devastated by the breakup. It wasn't simply a breakup but a betrayal of the highest order. I felt like a nuclear bomb had gone off in my insides, leaving everything flattened, decimated, and destroyed. I felt that renewal would never come. I remember thinking as I lay on my friend's couch, in the darkness of her apartment, "I will never be the same again. This will change me forever."

And it has. But not in the way that I expected. In the manner of a volcano spilling lava and ash all over a landscape, and leaving it in the interim devastated but ultimately enriching the soil so that life forms grow and thrive there that never would have before, God has brought more good out of this incident than I would ever have dreamed possible.

Two days after the ultimate ending, when in hatred he spoke the words that broke off even the possibility of a friendship forever, I went for a walk. I didn't intend to speak with God. I was angry as I could possibly be, I felt hopeless, and I was certain that nothing I did, no matter what it was, would change the situation. Certainly talking to God wouldn't. He was the one who'd put me in this mess, and he wasn't about to get me out of it. I was as desperate as I'd ever been. I was convinced this was the end.

But God met with me. I can't even explain it. In an intangible yet utterly tangible way, in an indescribable, un-understandable, thoroughly mysterious way, such that I didn't even know what was going on but knew only that it was God, he met with me. I felt his presence. I was healed. I walked away having forgiven. I walked away understanding. I walked away able to love the person who'd hurt me the most.

And more than that, I walked away with God.

I have "known God" for a long time. I knew I was a Christian. I knew I was God's child. I knew even, in a distant sort of way, that he loved me. Yet life's disappointments had shut me up to him. I was enclosed within walls and fortresses, and his loving presence was not allowed inside to touch me and to heal. I was too afraid. I'd been betrayed too often. I had too thick a shell, too stubborn a will, to ever yield. Even to love.

As years went by, I despaired. I had prophecies and words spoken of God's love for me, of the purpose he had for my life. I believed somehow that it was true, but if so, why didn't it come to pass? Why did I go to church week after week and remain unchanged? Why did I harden my heart in the message or against prophecies that I knew were spoken directly to me, persuading me to yield? Why did I go weeks, months, years without reading my Bible, without praying, without talking to God except in angry, hopeless desperation? Why did I cry when I was alone, asking him with all my heart to let me die? When was his promise going to happen?

And this. It seemed like the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate trick played on me by a God who was determined to make me suffer. My life had been one long record of suffering, and this one thing, the thing that finally seemed like some good, had turned bitter and sour. It was as if you'd bitten into the sweetest chocolate and found it ridden with the most deadly poison.

But it wasn't. The poison gave way to the healing medicine of God's touch. I had no choice, in that circumstance, but to turn to God. He was literally all I had left. Finally, he got me to the point where even my supremely stubborn will and hardened heart had to give way. I had no other choice. It would have eaten me alive.

And my heart has been set free. I surrendered to God, finally. Laid everything down. Gave myself to him heart and soul. Gave up. Gave in. Allowed him to do what he'd been longing to do for all those years: take me over. And it has been the sweetest thing that I have ever experienced, and my heart is free. I have known his touch, his presence, his voice, and his love in ways that I have never known them in my life before in these last few weeks. I have a renewed thirst and hunger for him, seeking him in prayer, reading his word. I have discovered him to be sweeter than anything on this earth. And I want more.

And not just that. It's spilled over to other people. Last night I had dinner with a co-worker and he bared his heart to me about his recent divorce and how he'd been seeking God. Today, he was in church. His heart was touched and tears spilled down his cheeks as he received prayer. He gave me a hug and thanked me for inviting him. I know he'll be back. And all of that is because, if God hadn't done what he's done in my life, I couldn't have reached out to another.

The preacher in church today told us that our mission is to bless everybody around us. Everybody in our city, everybody in our region. And for that, we need to be filled with the Holy Spirit. And I can testify to the truth of that.

I'm loving God. I'm loving other people. For the first time in my life, I'm loving myself. And I'm free. I'm totally free. The thought that made me pump my fist in the air as I was running, was that absolutely nothing in my life has been permanent. I have shifted around so much, moved so much, changed jobs so much, lost relationships, been hurt by other people—all to teach me the glorious truth that made me so happy: all I need is God. He is enough for me. Nothing on this earth lasts, nothing is reliable, but he is faithful. He is permanent. He will never leave me or forsake me. And his love is the greatest thing I can possibly possess.

I used to never understand the end of Romans 8. It says:

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written:
'For your sake we face death all day long;
we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Rom. 8:35-39)

For a long time I judged God's love in my life by my circumstances. If I was suffering, surely God did not love me. Now, for the first time, I understand these words. God's love is greater. God's love is greater than my circumstances. It triumphs over any earthly reality, even persecution, suffering, and death. If I have that, I can actually go through anything. It's real. It's great. And it's believable. He is all that I want.

I'm loving this. And for the first time, I make no apologies about being so blatantly "Christian" on my blog. I want everyone else to know this, too. Because if God's done it for me, who was so bitter, so hurting, and so closed against him for so long, he can do it for anyone.

Even you.

I'm moving yet again this Saturday, which will mark the sixth place I've lived in just over a year. It's getting old, this moving, packing up and roving on when something about the place I'm in becomes unsuitable. Or intolerable. On the other hand, I'm kind of getting used to it, paring my possessions down to the absolutely barest minimum to avoid unnecessary haulage.

But this time, I'm feeling a little bad. And some guilt, or sadness, is creeping in.

It's because of my landlady. Shortly after moving in with her, I discovered her issues with serious depression. She's an older woman who trained for the bar and is a recognized lawyer. Or was. That is, until the creeping, overwhelming sadness took her over and forced her inside, living on disability, lying on a bare mattress all day and all night except when she ventures out for therapy sessions or psychiatric appointments, barricading herself around with hoarded possessions as if they could give her the security she craves. She lives all day in her underwear and a sloppy t-shirt or sweater, her gray hair stringy and unkempt, only trudging around to make herself coffee or something to eat. She rarely if ever cleans and dishes pile up in the sink to sit for days. I quickly learned that if I wanted something cleaned, I'd have to do it myself. Even if it wasn't my mess.

I liked her and we got along well; she is a clever and at times funny person, despite the marked slowness the depression causes in her physical movement and speech. I felt uneasy around her at times—the darkness surrounding her is almost palpable; and the bitterness she spewed whenever she talked about members of her family or someone who'd done her wrong was wince-inducing; but all the same she is a likeable person, markedly vulnerable but at the same time appealing. I brought several friends closer to her age to the house for an Indian takeout and included her, hoping she'd make connections. I invited her to church, but anything outside her proscribed circle was maddeningly fearsome.

I knew there were problems when I moved in; but at the same time, I was escaping an intolerable situation and was glad to find something that was within my price range and close to the town I worked in. I figured that because our living spaces were so separate, and the cleaning duty so light, it wouldn't affect me. Coming after the unyielding expectations of my previous landlord, this one's uninvolvement was a welcome relief.

But shortly after I moved in, my trouble sleeping began. I'd never had difficulty sleeping in my life before; I'd drop off within moments of lying down and sleep like the proverbial log till ten or twelve hours later, if duty or an alarm didn't intervene. Even thunderstorms and other loud noises didn't disturb me.

Sleep became difficult to obtain and light; I'd jolt awake early in the morning and have trouble falling back asleep. Formerly a notorious sleeper-in, I could no longer doze past seven in the morning, even on the weekends.

For a long time, I tossed off friends' suggestions that her mindset could be affecting me; but deep inside I knew better. I knew whatever darkness haunted her had somehow made me a target as well; not consciously but subconsciously, attacking me as I slept. The last straw really came when she bought a place of her own and we moved to a town twenty-five minutes' drive away. For the last three months I've only slept there; carrying my possessions in my car like a nomad for my working, church, and social life which stretches from early in the morning till past nine most nights, and all day on weekends.

I could possibly have tolerated it longer were it not for the practical implications. But too many factors are making it unthinkable to be there any longer. However, now that I'm moving out, a guilt and a sadness are creeping in. I think of her coping by herself. I wonder who's going to clean. Who's going to take out the garbage, or bring in the mail. Who's going to remind her about things that she should take care of by herself. Who's going to take care of the cat when she makes one of her frequent three- or four-day stays at the psychiatric hospital, as has just happened again. The poor cat, a desperately social animal, hates being left by himself, and I'm hardly ever home to pay attention to him. He was pathetically clingy and bouncily joyful to see me this morning, though I barely had time to cuddle him a bit and put food in his bowl before my morning rush to leave for work.

So I'll pray about what to do, leave her a note with my phone number, and take her up on her suggestion that we go out for Indian food one day. I can't help but pity her and wish that I could help, somehow, though I don't think my six-and-a-half month stay with her has made any real difference. I wish that it had. I wish that I wasn't forced to leave.

How many other people like her are out there? How many, living desperately sad and alone, without family and with few friends who are mostly there to pity and provide practical help when needed? It makes me wonder.

From The Front Porch of Shannon Smith
Artist

Join me as I sit down with local artist Shannon Smith and have a lil' chat...

So how did you get started painting? I was born and raised into a family of artists. My Mom, my twin sister, and I are all oil painters and my triplet brother is a photographer.

How has growing up in a family of artists shaped you as an artist? Life as a triplet and an artist have made to be a fun and interesting one! How unique to be able to share a close sibling bond as well as all sharing the same artistic talents. My Mom was a full time mother of three, but she started painting once we got out of the house and started going to school. I was exposed to art at a young age through her works, attending art shows, and our family travels almost always included visits to art museums. I have fond memories of dabbling in watercolors in Mom's studio.
1979, Age 7

So did you always know that you wanted to be an artist? Wanted to be an artist, yes. I always had a love of drawing and painting and grew up wishing to be an artist like my mom but didn't believe I could do it professionally. So I did not become serious about painting until college. I earned my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Clemson University with my focus on oil painting. After graduating I was unsure about being able to support myself and making a career out of my art. While at Clemson, I broke my leg skiing and had to undergo knee surgery and months of physical therapy. That unfortunate experience sparked my interest in the field of health therapies, mostly physical and occupational therapy. I moved back to Charleston and went back to school for a year to fulfill the health and science prerequisites needed to apply to MUSC's graduate program of Occupational Therapy. However, I was not accepted and although disappointed at the time, I quickly realized it was a blessing in disguise!

Had you ever shown your work before? I had exhibited in Spoleto's outdoor art show in the past with my college art and decided to paint for that year's upcoming festival in May. I painted 25 oils for the show and sold over half! I was thrilled beyond words at my success. It was the boost of confidence that I needed to follow my passion as an artist! I also give tremendous credit to my mom and her artist friends, watching them achieve established roles in the art community, both locally and nationally, truly gave me the courage to follow my passion and follow in their footsteps! I am now a full time professional artist of 15 years, showing in galleries and museums, and have not looked back since that May of 1996!

Where do you show your work? This year we celebrate the 10 year Anniversary of the opening of our family gallery, Smith Killian Fine Art on 9 Queen St downtown Charleston. [Shannon also show's her work at the following galleries: The Well's Gallery at Kiawah Island, South Carolina; Anne Irwin Fine Art in Atlanta, Georgia; Parker Gallery in St. Simons Island, Georgia and the City Art Gallery in Greenville, North Carolina.

Where do you paint? My painting studio is in the upstairs of my home in Mount Pleasant, but I also take my "studio" outside and paint en plein-air when nice weather and great travel opportunities permit.

Shannon in her home studio.

Shannon plein-air painting in the misty rain on Shem Creek.

Also she is a Signature Member of the Plein-Air Painters of the Southeast.

How would you describe your paintings? My subject matter varies between landscape, still life, and figures while all sharing the common theme of dramatic use of light. I consider my style to be somewhat impressionistic and representational, with strong emphasis on color and light.

Here are some examples of her latest work.

"Cortona Light"
40x30 Oil on Linen

"Lowcountry Roots"
36x60 Oil on Linen

"Summer House II"
30x30 Oil on Linen

"The Waiter"
30x40 Oil on Linen

"Pink and Pewter"
16x20 Oil on Linen

Shannon has a wall in her studio she calls her "Travel Wall" where she creates paintings from all the places she travels. In the photo, you can see one of her two Himalayan cats, Ollie (other is Rufus). Ollie likes to sit on the sofa and watch Shannon paint. In fact, sometimes Ollie gets a little too close as he had green paint all over his beautiful white fur! Just one of the hazards of being the cat of an artist I suppose.

Shannon will be teaching a painting workshop along with fellow artist Laurie Meyer in Italy in April of 2012.

Since I am an interior designer, you know I am going to ask you about your home!

Your house is adorable! How long have you lived here? It will be 6 years this Thanksgiving. I bought it during the construction phase so I was able to customize some of the elements to my particular taste. What really drew me to it was the Nantucket cottage feel it had.

What is your favorite spot in your home and why? My back screened in porch without a doubt! I grew up always having a porch where our family shared meals and time together. It is my "happy place" where I unwind and truly relax, whether it be with my morning coffee or evening glass of wine. I just love being outside close to nature... watching the birds at my bird feeders and enjoying the critters that frequent the pond behind my backyard, ie. ducks, herons, egrets, turtles, snakes, and the occasional visiting gator! All while listening to water trickle from my fountain, I also take in the fast changing colors and clouds of evening light which soon become a beautiful night sky of moon and stars. I am also fortunate to have a front porch...now that is where I go to rock in my rockers and be more social with the close-by neighbors!

Name one item in your home that you are most proud of? I am most proud of my art collection...mostly oils and a few etchings and photographs. Of course they are all original pieces! While some are my own works, several pieces were traded with my family and artist friends, and some I have purchased through art galleries. I treasure each and every one for their meaning and inspiration to me and my life as an artist. I am out of wall space...time for a bigger house to continue my art collection!!

What is the first item you bought for your home? Afghan and Turkish hand made rugs from Zinn Rug Gallery. Most of my wall colors and furniture are shades of white and neutrals, therefore the rugs and artwork are a chance for a pop of color.

If you could update one aspect of your home what would it be and why? My light fixtures. When completing this house, I chose things that fit in with the traditional coastal cottage style. I now wish I had meshed more contemporary modern with the current cottage theme. I like the idea of new and modern mixed with antique and cottage...keeps it interesting! I am not at all a fan of "matching" decorating, color wise or furniture wise! I think changing out light fixtures, ie. my pendants over the kitchen bar and chandelier over the breakfast table, would be an easy way to update my home, giving it more of a modern twist without a lot of fuss.

It has been great getting to know you better, thanks for taking the time to sit with me Shannon!

[From The Front Porch Of ___ will become a regular post I will be doing for all of us to get to know local artists, business owners and craftsman in the Charleston area that are in some way "home" related. I hope you enjoy getting to know these folks as much I do!]

Last night, I took part in the Global Night Commute, organized by Invisible Children. The purpose of the event was to raise awareness of the nearly 20-year-long rebel war in Northern Uganda and the horrific toll it has taken on the civilian population, of which 1.7 million people are displaced; 20-50,000 children have been abducted and forced to serve as soldiers and sex slaves; and 130 people die each day due to violence.

Each night, thousands of children commute on foot for miles from their homes in rural areas and sleep in city centres and "safe" areas to avoid abduction, only to repeat the commute the next morning. By doing the same for one night, thousands of people across the US, Canada, and several other countries including Ireland and Singapore, hoped to draw attention to the issue and force the hand of their governments to act.

I took part in the march in Durham, New Hampshire, on the University of New Hampshire campus. We met in a parkinglot on the west edge of town. As the time approached, busloads and carloads of people began accumulating, clutching backpacks and sleeping bags. By 7:00 we'd gathered the 200+ who'd signed up for the event. Most were UNH students; some were from local high schools; a few stragglers showed up from elsewhere, including the four from my church who took part. A couple of people had walked all the way from Dover, a distance of ten or twelve miles, starting their walk at 1:00 that afternoon.

After a few organizational remarks and a reminder about why we were all there, nine slow shots from a starter pistol set us off, and we started walking. The two-mile route mapped out for us wound around the centre of Durham. Two hundred plus people walking attracts a lot of attention; we made a long parade. People in passing cars stared, waved, yelled, honked their horns; a few asked what we were doing. A police escort watched over us and blocked off traffic till we passed.

Once we'd arrived at the designated spot, a grassy lawn in front of one of the UNH buildings, we threw down our sleeping bags and marked out our spots. The sun was going down and it rapidly grew chillier. Volunteers handed us each a stapled bunch of papers including instructions and three blank sheets: one for a letter to be written to President Bush; one for a letter to our Congressman; and one for an art project to be included in a yearbook-type of publication about the event. My two friends and I wrote our letters but opted out of the art project, for lack of enthusiasm and lack of light.

A video clip was shown; an informational presentation; a couple of people spoke; and in the end the Invisible Children documentary was played again. At one point the organizer of the event got up to warn us that the temperature was forecasted to drop below freezing that night. Did any of us want to sleep on an indoor track that was made available to us? A few tentative hands went up; the body elected to stay where we were. The feeling seemed to be that we'd committed ourselves; we might as well go the whole way.

As the night came and the chill grew deeper my friends and I cuddled down into our sleeping bags and snuggled together for warmth. A kind friend from another group lent us a tarp to spread under us, warning that the ground would get very wet. We struggled with our sleeping bags, tried to find the most comfortable and warmest position, talked and laughed, and eventually, as it grew late, fell asleep.

The best of us slept lightly. It is never comfortable sleeping on the ground or in a constrictive sleeping bag at any time. The high school and college kids laughed, talked, played baseball and guitars loudly till very late. I woke up a few times during the night and opened my eyes only to realize with chagrin that it was still dark and there were more hours to endure. My toes froze. My hips grew alternately sore as I rolled from side to side. It's a wonder any of us slept at all. It was a long night.

But we endured it. As the sun came up the next morning and the sky lightened from black to blue we woke groaning with cold, stiffness, and tiredness. We realized that frost was covering our sleeping bags, our backpacks, and even our pillows where our heads hadn't lain. Eventually the whole mound of people other than us had gotten up, packed up their sleeping bags and tarps, and sleepily stumbled off home. Finally Kyle, the lone guy in our number, bravely got up, sprinted back to his house, got his car, and drove back to give us a ride back to the parkinglot where we'd left our cars. We drove off our separate ways to shower and change and (in my case, at least) sleep another couple of hours before meeting up again for church.

And that was that. If it makes a difference, I'm glad I slept out one night in weather far too cold for any sane person to do so out of choice. One night of discomfort is nothing compared to what the kids in Northern Uganda suffer every night; and we had no fear of being abducted or marauded by any but rowdy college students. I'm thankful to have had the chance to take part, and I hope and pray it makes an impact that is felt permanently and significantly in Uganda.

Top: Frost on my backpack

Bottom: Frost on my pillow

It's something I've thought about a lot lately.

Not that that is anything unusual--it's often in my thoughts, either subliminally or as a flicker when something happens to arouse it, sometimes more as a conscious thought pattern. I think recently it has been pushed to the forefront by moving back to the United States (no offense, Americans. . .)

Racism came to my life early. In the area of the northeastern United States that I grew up in, it was a tension that split our culture in two. Ever-present, nobody that I knew would acknowledge it openly. It was just there, evidenced in the way that blacks and whites did not live together or do things together. In my circles, when someone who was not of a white skin colour was spoken of, it was obligatory to mention that he or she was black. Dark-skinned people lived in separate colonies (everyone knew where the "black section" of town was); worshipped at separate churches, and had separate social lives. When people of different skin colours did meet, it was nearly always in the public sphere: at work, in the store. The worlds did not mesh but only touched and stayed apart. The order of the day when it came to feelings between the two cultures was one of suspicion and sometimes open hostility.

My parents, I know (though I love them) had, and I think still have, some racist feelings, deeply-entrenched. This is probably largely due to the fact that they grew up in a generation one removed from mine. My father, to do him credit, had several work colleagues who were black, and frequently commuted with one of them. I know he was as friendly with black folks as white. Yet, when it came to the issue of inter-colour dating (I won't use the term "interracial" because I believe it is inaccurate at best), he was vitriolic, as he was on many topics: white girls who went out with black guys "were just looking for a sensation, looking to cause attention."

My mother, when I asked her what she would think if I married a black guy (as a teenager, I wanted a black boyfriend), responded, "We'd rather you married someone from your own culture." How a fellow American of a darker skin colour could possibly be said to be from a different culture still mystifies me. (I don't dis-acknowledge the existence of different ethnic and cultural roots--I know they affect me just as much as anyone else).

One of my most uncomfortable memories is of being twelve years old and seated in the back seat of our family car as a work colleague of my father's, an intelligent, cultured black woman, leaned into the window to talk to my parents. "Oh, hi, Anne," my mother said, in a high, quick, too-polite tone that I knew meant that Anne was BLACK. I squrimed inwardly, hoping against hope that Anne didn't notice but fearing she couldn't but.

As children, I think we had little racism, as children do: they see with open eyes and have not generally been taught the prejudice that exists among their elders. We had fewer black friends than white, simply because the cultures did not collide; but we had some. One of my earliest friends was a dark-skinned girl called Marianne; however, the friendship ended abruptly when she decided to do an experiment to see whether my rescued baby squirrel could swim and tricked my brothers and me into leaving while she did it. I came back to see the poor blind thing feebly and futilely stroking away at the water, and my rage ensured the end of Marianne's visits.

Later in our next childhood home, a black church met in a property almost directly behind our backyard. Playing in their parkinglot, which offered a wonderful paved space for countless games, we couldn't help but meet our peers when they were released from the seemingly endless services. One boy in particular became a friend and others, frequent playmates.

As a preteen I underwent a brief and embarrassing feud with a girl from the "black" apartment just up the street; we'd meet for pre-arranged insult matches, cheered on by our respective groups of friends. I think that our skin colours were an incidental excuse for a rivalry that in reality our gender and emotional problems fueled. It never escalated to physical violence; and later with more maturity the girl and I enjoyed a cordial relationship of "hellos" and smiles as we passed on the street.

At the age of nineteen, I had the privilege to move to what by informal accounts ranks as the most multi-cultural city in the world: Toronto. There, at my college, at church, in my wider circles and in encounters on the street, I had what I count as the inestimable privilege of being able to meet, talk to, and befriend people from literally almost every culture and major country in the world. Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Africans, Indians, West Indians--you name it, I met and talked and ate with them and became close friends with many of them. What that experience taught me, not to mention hard evidence (more of that later), is that all people, no matter what culture, what country, what skin colour, what facial features, are just the same inside: people. Same thoughts, same feelings, same loves, same sorrows, same experiences, same humour, same soul that's been created in the image of the eternal God, same proneness to depression and emotional problems, same hopes and dreams of falling in love or having a good career, same need for a love that goes beyond them. THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE.

This tallies with what the Apostle Paul said in what is one of the theme verses of my life:

From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. 'For in him we live and move and have our being.' As some of your own poets have said, 'We are his offspring.' Acts 17:26-28, emphasis mine

Certainly culture exists. Certainly differences that are caused by growing up Asian or African mean that people will perceive things differently, think differently, act and react differently. But no matter the differences in the expression of culture, the cliche remains true: our basic similarities are greater than our differences. Some of my most cherished memories are of time shared around a meal with people from two or three or more different cultures, bonding, sharing experiences, and learning from one another. Why is that possible? Because in spite of our divergent experiences, we are the same race and are enriched by our discussions with each other.

One of the things I personally can't wait for is heaven. One of the things that I most can't wait to experience is this:

After this I looked and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. Revelation 7:9

This comes about because, as we are told earlier in Revelation:

And they sang a new song: "You [Jesus] are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation." Revelation 5:9

I can't wait. Jesus' whole purpose for dying was to bring a people to God, a people who are completely united in thought and purpose and love. And these people are going to come from every race, every nation, every language, every tribe, every people group: and we will meet and worship as one at Jesus' feet in total rapture and grateful abandon forever, all differences still gloriously present yet beautifully harmonized as one. Racism gone, prejudice gone, hatred gone, the curse erased, no longer even a memory--just as God created it to be. Wow. Makes me long for heaven even more. And in the meantime, for our churches, which are little outposts of heaven on earth, to look like this.

Check out this great article for a scientific perspective on the myth of "race" (popular level read, non-technical)