(21) When You Want to Be Loved (…And More Than That, Loved Less Than Someone Else)
Let’s be honest.
This is where it gets...Uncomfortable.
Scratch that—this is where it gets offensive to our flesh.
“From the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.
That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.”
Oh—and while we’re at it:
“From the desire of being extolled…
From the desire of being honored…
From the desire of being praised…
From the desire of being preferred…
That others may be preferred to me in everything…”
Wait—everything?
Yes. Everything.
(Go ahead, pour yourself a cup of tea. You're gonna need it.)
These aren’t just desires—they are cravings woven into the fabric of being human.
We want to be seen.
We want to be picked.
We want someone to say, “You. I choose you.”
So when someone else gets chosen—especially when we’ve been faithful, quiet, hidden, suffering—we feel it.
It doesn’t matter if they’re louder, flashier, less kind, or less faithful… when they’re loved more, or first, or instead?
Something clenches inside.
Let’s not pretend we’re too holy to admit it.
Humility doesn’t lie.
It just asks for a better kind of honesty.
Because this prayer doesn’t say: “God, I don’t want to be loved.”
It says: “Free me from needing it in order to feel okay. And while You’re at it, help me celebrate when someone else gets what I thought I needed.”
That’s not self-hatred.
That’s spiritual maturity.
(Or at least... the road to it.)
Remember our tiny prophet-in-training?
Katherine Freeman’s granddaughter, age three, who gave us the most honest line in the whole Litany?
Here’s where her wisdom lands again.
Because when someone else is chosen—when you are overlooked, unseen, or loved less…
That holy tantrum rises:
“I just can’t want to do that.”
But here’s the grace:
Jesus never mocks an honest answer.
He just leans in, smiles, and says,
“That’s okay. I’ll help you.”
“I can’t want to do that.”
There it is—the heart of this whole section of the Litany.
Because let’s be real: we know what God is asking.
We just… can’t want it. Not yet.
But that’s where the grace comes in.
Because you can’t white-knuckle your way into rejoicing when someone else gets the thing you begged God for.
You can’t manufacture delight when you're overlooked and they’re celebrated.
You can’t pretend it doesn’t sting when someone else is preferred, praised, chosen, or—let's say it—loved more.
But you can pray:
“Jesus, I can’t want to do that… but I want to want it. Change me.”
And He will.
Bit by bit, He’ll teach you how to stop scanning the room for validation.
How to stop counting how many people noticed your sacrifice.
How to stop asking, “When is it my turn?”
And start asking, “How can I love better right now?”
Because this part of the Litany isn’t about erasing yourself.
It’s about being free.
Free from the lie that love is scarce.
Free from the fear that if they get more, you get less.
Free to bless others as they shine—even if you’re holding the light.
It’s not about becoming invisible.
It’s about being secure in the arms of the One who sees in secret.
The One who never forgets a hidden act of love.
The One who is preparing a crown for you—not because the crowd cheered, but because you served faithfully in silence.
So if this feels impossible, you’re not failing.
You’re just human.
And Jesus knows how to meet humans right where they are.
So let that ache be your altar.
Let the jealousy, the frustration, the longing—all of it—become your offering.
Lay it at His feet.
And pray again:
“Deliver me, Jesus.
Grant me the grace to desire it.
Make me the kind of person who can love… even when I’m not loved back.
Who can praise… even when no one praises me.
Who can honor others… without needing to be honored in return.”
Because when that starts happening?
That’s not just humility.
That’s holiness.
That’s healing.
That’s Heaven… leaking into earth.
And the best part?
When you're finally free of clawing for love, praise, honor, or preference…
You become the kind of person God can trust with real influence.
Because you don’t need it to survive.
You just want to serve.
And in that upside-down kind of life…
We finally look like Jesus.
Hungry for more?
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