Immanuel - and the interior

Well — it was inevitable that I wouldn’t write every day. A girl can have lofty goals but, in the words of the iconic C.J. Cregg, “I had root canal.”

And that, it turns out, was enough to knock out the balance of life’s priorities for a couple of days. It’s amazing how teeny tiny nerve endings can hold the entire rest of you hostage. Everything slows down, narrows, gets foggy. Suddenly your grand plans become: pain meds and keep it simple.

Thankfully, the fog lifted in time for me to spend today doing something much nicer: sorting, cleaning, and preparing our home to have our staff team over tomorrow night. As I moved through the house — planning, wiping, prepping, arranging place settings — something in me started to reflect on the difference between preparing for what’s visible and preparing for what’s eternal.

I put real thought into the table. I paid attention to the details people will notice (and those they probably wont!). I wanted the space to feel warm, welcoming, intentional.

But how often do I give that kind of preparation to the interior space — the place where God actually dwells?

It struck me with uncomfortable clarity:

What needs cleaning out in my heart? What looks presentable enough on the outside but wouldn’t feel so great if I were standing in front of the King we’re celebrating?

Advent has a gentle way of pressing these questions into us. Not so much to induce a feeling of guilt, but rather with an invitation. And this year, with my still-sore jaw and my very clean dining table, I found myself thinking about one of the names that sits at the centre of this season:

Immanuel — God with us.

What does it really mean that God comes to dwell with us?

Not just near us. Not simply around us. With us. In us.

Immanuel isn’t a concept. It’s a presence. The presence. And presence requires space.

When Matthew announces Jesus’ birth, he quotes Isaiah’s prophecy that the child born to Mary would be called Immanuel — God with us. The God who could remain distant chooses to come close. The God who could be unapproachable chooses to be deeply present. And not just in a grand, global sense, but in the tiny, ordinary corners of our lives — the kitchen benches, the unmade beds, the anxious hearts, the aching teeth.

If God truly dwells with us, then the most important room we prepare isn’t the dining room. It’s the heart.

But here’s the tension of it: We prepare not to impress God, but to receive Him.

Jesus doesn’t wait for a spotless interior. He comes into the mess, the clutter, the untidy emotional cupboards we keep closed to everyone else. He comes as the One who makes us clean — not the One who demands we sort ourselves out before He arrives.

Yet Advent invites us to slow down long enough to notice:
Where have I let dust gather in my spirit?
Where have I decorated the outside but ignored the inside?
Where is Jesus already present, waiting for me to make room and re-asses my prioritise?

Immanuel means God comes close — but it also means we are invited to pay attention.

So tonight, as the table is set and the house is ready, I’m asking myself:
Is my inner life ready to receive Him too?
Not perfectly — but openly.
Not flawlessly — but honestly.

Because God with us isn’t a concept of something to admire from a distance. He is someone to welcome. To make space for when the rest of the world wants to crowd Him out.

And maybe, like root canals and dinner parties, God uses the small, unplanned, slightly painful moments to remind us that He is still — always — with us.