One of the first things I do in the morning is open my thick tapestry curtains. Usually, sunbeams trip into the room. On days when I have time, their warm greeting beckons me back to my bed. I stretch over the covers, turn on my side and look up and out my bedroom window. There, framed by the big maple tree, is a stained-glass ornament, 8 inches long and made by Mother Praxedes of the Abbey of Regina Laudis. Representing the “root of Jesse,” it is of a flower. Its bulbous blossom is a bold combination of orange and angles. Out of the blossom shoot four yellow stamen—just as jocular and unruly as the sunbeams they catch. The whole piece is held together by an elegant, bright green stem that descends down from the blossom, almost too delicate to hold the weight above it.

But that is not my favorite bit. My favorite bit is only seen when I tilt my head and my eye catches its crystalline glimmer: a clear, flat wisp of glass that reaches out from branch to blossom. Not part of the image, but crucial to the piece’s support.

On those mornings, I think of all of those who support—without name or even perhaps without due recognition—my life, the church, the world. And then I think of the shoot, sprouting from the stump of Jesse—all those men and women whose lives and choices led to and supported the birth, life and ministry of Jesus.

Silently, I say a prayer of gratitude and vow to be better at seeing them, at thanking them and ensuring that their vital work does not go unnoticed.