Chap­ter VIII – For Greater Things recounts a peri­od of intense phys­i­cal suf­fer­ing and spir­i­tu­al tri­umph for Stanis­laus Kost­ka. At six­teen, after near­ly two years of emo­tion­al neglect and mis­treat­ment in Vien­na, his body final­ly began to break under the con­stant pres­sure. A fever in late Novem­ber 1566 marked the begin­ning of a seri­ous ill­ness. Though phys­i­cal­ly weak­ened, his spir­it nev­er wavered. With the feast of Saint Bar­bara draw­ing near, Stanis­laus focused his prayers on receiv­ing the grace of a hap­py death and, above all, Holy Com­mu­nion. In those days, Viaticum was seen as a sacred final rite—a com­fort for the dying and a prepa­ra­tion for eter­nal life. Despite his fam­i­ly’s luke­warm con­cern and their sud­den attempts at com­pas­sion, he remained detached, think­ing only of unit­ing his suf­fer­ing with Christ.

As the ill­ness wors­ened, Stanis­laus encoun­tered an espe­cial­ly dis­turb­ing moment—a spir­i­tu­al bat­tle that few could com­pre­hend. One night, he described see­ing a mon­strous black dog, whose pres­ence he inter­pret­ed as demon­ic. Yet, instead of cow­er­ing, he con­front­ed it through fer­vent prayer. His courage, drawn from com­plete trust in God, seemed to ban­ish the dark­ness. The next morn­ing, his strength had drained fur­ther, but his soul remained at peace. The phys­i­cal toll was appar­ent, but his deter­mi­na­tion to receive Com­mu­nion only grew stronger. Each request was met with refusal, as the Luther­an landlord—strictly anti-Catholic—forbade any Jesuit or priest from enter­ing the house. The risk was high; even his tutors feared retal­i­a­tion should they go against the land­lord’s wish­es.

Still, Stanis­laus con­tin­ued to pray. His faith didn’t col­lapse under the weight of dis­ap­point­ment; instead, it rose like a flame. One night, his prayers were answered in a way that no one around him could have pre­dict­ed. A radi­ant light filled the room, and two angels appeared before him, accom­pa­nied by Saint Bar­bara. In their hands, they held the Blessed Sacra­ment. Stanis­laus, over­whelmed with grat­i­tude and awe, received Com­mu­nion from heav­en­ly mes­sen­gers, not men. This mirac­u­lous moment was both pri­vate and trans­for­ma­tive, wit­nessed only by the soul it came to bless. Though the ill­ness per­sist­ed, the peace that fol­lowed was unmis­tak­able. He had received what he longed for—not through human chan­nels, but by divine grace.

These moments would lat­er be seen as defin­ing signs of his sanc­ti­ty. Though unknown to the wider world at the time, his room in that house became, for a brief moment, a chapel of heav­en. Soon after, he would be vis­it­ed by anoth­er vision—this time of the Vir­gin Mary and the Infant Jesus, offer­ing con­so­la­tion and con­firm­ing his spir­i­tu­al des­tiny. These expe­ri­ences didn’t remove his phys­i­cal pain, but they infused it with a holy joy. He bore his con­di­tion not as a bur­den but as a cross will­ing­ly car­ried. He refused to ask for pity or com­fort. Instead, he used every breath to pray, every silence to reflect on divine mys­ter­ies.

Through­out his ill­ness, his fam­i­ly observed a change they couldn’t ful­ly explain. He grew calmer, more lumi­nous in spir­it, even as his health con­tin­ued to fail. Their ear­li­er hos­til­i­ty fad­ed into con­fu­sion and mut­ed respect. While they didn’t yet under­stand the spir­i­tu­al depth of the boy they had once dis­missed, they no longer mocked his devo­tion. In Stanis­laus, they saw strength that didn’t come from pride, but from peace. Even the tutors, once indif­fer­ent, began to soft­en.

This chap­ter offers a pow­er­ful med­i­ta­tion on what it means to suf­fer well. Stanis­laus did not seek out pain, but when it came, he accept­ed it as part of a divine plan. His exam­ple shows that holi­ness is not defined by the absence of suf­fer­ing, but by how one endures it. He did not lose hope when priests were kept from his side. He sim­ply turned to heaven—and heav­en answered. The Eucharist, which many receive rou­tine­ly, became for him a mir­a­cle that sealed his con­nec­tion to the divine. These expe­ri­ences fore­shad­owed his future path and served as signs that even in a hos­tile envi­ron­ment, grace can­not be kept out.

His sto­ry in this chap­ter reflects a deep the­o­log­i­cal truth: that God’s pres­ence is not con­fined to church­es or cer­e­monies but breaks through where faith is alive. For Stanis­laus, sanc­ti­ty was born not in ease but in adver­si­ty, not in pub­lic deeds but in pri­vate per­se­ver­ance. And it was this hid­den holi­ness, illu­mi­nat­ed by mirac­u­lous signs, that would even­tu­al­ly draw the atten­tion of saints and schol­ars, con­firm­ing that even in silence, great­ness grows.