Chap­ter XI – For Greater Things opens as Stanis­laus Kost­ka, after walk­ing near­ly four hun­dred miles with aching feet and a prayer­ful heart, arrives in Augs­burg, only to find that the man he seeks—Peter Canisius—is no longer there. Though dis­heart­ened by the news, he refus­es to rest. With unwa­ver­ing deter­mi­na­tion, he learns that Can­i­sius has relo­cat­ed to Dillin­gen, thir­ty-five more miles down the road. The Jesuits at Augs­burg offer him food and rest, yet Stanis­laus gen­tly declines, eager to com­plete the jour­ney with­out delay. His heart, fixed on a high­er call­ing, urges him for­ward. He sets off again, accom­pa­nied by a lay-broth­er, with no com­plaints on his lips and a spir­it still alight with pur­pose.

That night, Stanis­laus sleeps under the stars, rest­ing on the cold earth with­out protest. His sim­plic­i­ty becomes a strength, not a bur­den. The next morn­ing, hun­gry for the Eucharist, he stum­bles into a vil­lage chapel in search of Com­mu­nion. Unbe­knownst to him, the build­ing is a Luther­an church. Though no priest is present and the sacra­ment is absent, Stanis­laus kneels in prayer. He begs God to feed his soul, and in a moment of mys­ti­cal grace, a vision unfolds—angels appear, one hold­ing a chal­ice. He receives the Blessed Sacra­ment not by human hands, but through divine inter­ven­tion. This extra­or­di­nary moment affirms the depth of his faith and God’s near­ness in his jour­ney.

Upon reach­ing Dillin­gen, Stanis­laus meets Can­i­sius at last. The Jesuit leader, sea­soned in wis­dom and dis­cern­ing in spir­it, is imme­di­ate­ly struck by the young man’s zeal. Still, Can­i­sius knows the road to reli­gious life demands more than enthusiasm—it requires humil­i­ty and endurance. To test him, he pro­pos­es that Stanis­laus stay not as a novice, but as a ser­vant in the Jesuit col­lege. The sug­ges­tion could have wound­ed a less­er soul, yet Stanis­laus accepts with­out pause. He sees the offer not as a demo­tion, but as a new form of devo­tion. For him, serv­ing meals and scrub­bing floors are no less holy than preach­ing or writ­ing; they are sacred if done for God.

Assigned to the kitchen, Stanis­laus begins his tasks with joy. He greets the cooks with a warm smile, quick­ly learn­ing their rou­tines and duties. Though the work is hard, he nev­er com­plains. His hands, once used for noble tasks back home, now car­ry trays and clean pots. Yet his spir­it remains noble, ground­ed in humil­i­ty and love. The oth­er ser­vants are tak­en aback by his kind­ness and grat­i­tude. He treats them as equals, nev­er show­ing signs of pride or weari­ness. His cheer­ful­ness becomes infec­tious. What begins as a test soon becomes a rev­e­la­tion: Stanis­laus does not just per­form hum­ble work—he sanc­ti­fies it.

Can­i­sius observes qui­et­ly. He sees no resent­ment in the boy, no rest­less­ness, only peace. Stanis­laus attends prayers, fol­lows instruc­tions, and com­pletes his chores with steady atten­tion. He stud­ies when allowed, reflects in silence, and often prays late into the night. Even in qui­et moments, his thoughts are nev­er idle; they are lift­ed toward heav­en. Slow­ly, Can­i­sius begins to see that Stanislaus’s heart is anchored in some­thing deep­er than ambi­tion. He is not mere­ly pious; he is formed by grace. The tri­al of servi­tude, which might have dis­cour­aged oth­ers, only reveals his authen­tic­i­ty.

In time, Can­i­sius is con­vinced. The humil­i­ty, the joy, the inner strength—all point to a soul ready for the Jesuit path. He writes to the Supe­ri­or Gen­er­al, Fran­cis Bor­gia, request­ing that Stanis­laus be accept­ed into the Novi­tiate in Rome. The deci­sion marks a new chap­ter not just in Stanislaus’s life, but in the for­ma­tion of a saint. He has proven him­self not through words, but through qui­et wit­ness. His jour­ney from noble son to kitchen ser­vant, and now to novice, reflects the trans­for­ma­tion at the heart of Chris­t­ian dis­ci­ple­ship: the sur­ren­der of sta­tus for the sake of sanc­ti­ty.

This chap­ter becomes a tes­ta­ment to the pow­er of humil­i­ty in the spir­i­tu­al life. Stanis­laus did not seek great­ness; he sim­ply gave him­self ful­ly to God, in what­ev­er form that ser­vice took. He reminds us that the true mea­sure of holi­ness is not how high we rise, but how deeply we kneel. Every mile he walked, every pot he scrubbed, every prayer he whis­pered, became an offer­ing. And from that offer­ing, God shaped a lega­cy that would inspire gen­er­a­tions to come. His jour­ney in Dillin­gen may have start­ed in the kitchen, but it would echo in the heav­ens.