Lord, grant that I might not so much seek to be loved as to love.

Host:
The monastery courtyard lay under a blanket of soft dawn light, its cobblestones slick with dew. The first birds were beginning to stir in the cypress trees, their songs fragile and pure — like tiny prayers flung into the awakening air. A faint mist drifted across the arches, wrapping the world in that thin veil between night and morning, silence and sound, heaven and earth.

In the center of the courtyard, a stone fountain whispered — not loudly, but with the peace of something that had never learned to rush.

Jack sat on the fountain’s edge, a rough woolen cloak pulled over his shoulders. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, his grey eyes lifted toward the faint gold emerging in the east. He looked tired — not from sleep, but from thought.

Jeeny stood near the cloister wall, her hair unbound, her face calm in the half-light. In her hands she held a small wooden rosary, its beads worn smooth by generations of devotion. She turned it slowly, as if listening to something beyond sound — the rhythm of an inner grace.

The air smelled faintly of incense from last night’s prayers. Somewhere, a bell began to toll once, calling the brothers to morning silence.

Jack: “‘Lord, grant that I might not so much seek to be loved as to love.’” He said the words with reverence, his voice low but steady. “Francis of Assisi. A man who gave up everything just to understand that one sentence.”

Host:
The mist curled gently around them, the light spreading slowly across the stone.

Jeeny: “He didn’t just understand it. He lived it. That’s the difference between wisdom and holiness.”

Jack: “And what’s holiness, exactly?”

Jeeny: “It’s love without agenda.”

Jack: “You make it sound impossible.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Host:
The sunlight began to touch the courtyard walls, warming the cold stone. The shadows of the cypress trees stretched long and thin, reaching toward them like gentle reminders of mortality.

Jack: “You think anyone can love like that? Without wanting to be loved back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not forever. But for moments — yes. And those moments are when we touch eternity.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Francis found?”

Jeeny: “He found peace in giving what the world told him he should demand.”

Jack: “So love isn’t something you get. It’s something you become.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The prayer doesn’t ask for affection. It asks for transformation.”

Host:
The wind moved through the cloister, rustling the leaves, carrying a faint scent of rosemary from the garden beyond.

Jack: “I don’t think I’ve ever loved like that.”

Jeeny: “Few people have. Most of us love to fill the emptiness, not to empty ourselves.”

Jack: “Emptying sounds like loss.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think love is possession. But Francis understood — love’s not a container; it’s a current. It can’t be held. Only given.”

Host:
Her words lingered in the still air, tender and true.

Jack: “So love without expecting anything back?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because expectation poisons grace. When you love just to love — not to be seen, not to be needed — that’s when love becomes divine.”

Jack: “That sounds… lonely.”

Jeeny: “Only at first. Then it becomes freedom.”

Host:
The sunlight reached the fountain now, turning the water into liquid gold. The small ripples shimmered, catching the light like truth catching breath.

Jack: “You think Francis was ever afraid? That maybe no one would love him back?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But he discovered something better — that love itself was enough to sustain him.”

Jack: “So the act became the answer.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love became his food, his work, his prayer.”

Host:
She set down the rosary beside him on the stone, the wood clicking gently against the marble.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of simplicity. To stop asking ‘Do they love me?’ and just start asking, ‘How can I love them better?’”

Jeeny: “It’s not simplicity. It’s surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender to what?”

Jeeny: “To love as a force bigger than your need.”

Host:
He looked at her, really looked, as if her words were light refracted into meaning.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve prayed this prayer before.”

Jeeny: “Every time I’m hurt.”

Jack: “And does it work?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t erase the pain. It just reminds me that pain isn’t the opposite of love — indifference is.”

Host:
The bell rang again, long and low, a sound that filled the air with gravity and grace.

Jack: “You think the world could survive if people actually lived that prayer?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if they meant it.”

Jack: “And what does it mean to mean it?”

Jeeny: “To love when it’s inconvenient. To forgive when it’s undeserved. To stay kind even when the world laughs at you for it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like sainthood.”

Jeeny: “No. Just humanity, uncorrupted.”

Host:
The mist began to lift now, revealing the monastery garden — rows of herbs, small flowers, and the faint path leading toward the open gate.

Jack: “You ever think love’s the only prayer that doesn’t need words?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love is the word — the original one.”

Jack: “Then maybe Francis wasn’t asking for love at all. Maybe he was asking to remember who he already was.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t asking God to give him love. He was asking God to remove everything that blocks it.”

Host:
Her eyes shimmered softly, reflecting the sunrise.

Jack: “So love isn’t something you seek?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s something you let happen through you.”

Jack: “And when you do?”

Jeeny: “Then even heartbreak becomes holy.”

Host:
The camera would pull back slowly — the two figures framed by light, the fountain gleaming, the monastery bathed in gold. The bell continued its gentle toll, echoing across the hills like a heartbeat of the divine.

And as the scene faded into the rising sun, Francis of Assisi’s words would linger — not as plea, but as awakening:

That to love is not to seek return,
but to give as the sun gives —
quietly, endlessly, without demand.

That the truest prayer
is not for affection,
but for the grace to become
a vessel of love itself —
to stop reaching for what you lack,
and start radiating what you are.

For in the act of loving,
without need or condition,
the human heart
finally remembers
it was divine all along.