Chap­ter XIII – For Greater Things presents a qui­et yet pow­er­ful por­trait of Saint Stanis­laus Kost­ka dur­ing his time as a novice at the Pro­fessed House in Rome. At just sev­en­teen, he embraced a rou­tine that many might see as mundane—carrying wood, wash­ing dish­es, serv­ing food—yet he approached each task as though it were a divine appoint­ment. While oth­ers might seek holi­ness in mir­a­cles or preach­ing, Stanis­laus found it in silent obe­di­ence and the small­est duties. His day began ear­ly, filled with prayer, med­i­ta­tion, spir­i­tu­al read­ing, and sim­ple man­u­al labor. What marked his sanc­ti­ty was not what he did, but how he did it—with per­fect dis­ci­pline and a heart ful­ly fixed on God. When instruct­ed by the cook to car­ry only a few sticks of wood at a time, he did so with­out ques­tion, believ­ing that this, too, was part of his sacred path.

His obe­di­ence wasn’t blind; it was infused with love and rev­er­ence. Each com­mand was treat­ed as if it had come from Christ Him­self. Even the menial tasks became oppor­tu­ni­ties for grace. He didn’t seek praise or recog­ni­tion, nor did he attempt to impress his supe­ri­ors. Rather, he com­mit­ted him­self to the life of a Jesuit novice with full sin­cer­i­ty. The process, typ­i­cal­ly two years long, was meant to test endurance, humil­i­ty, and devotion—qualities that Stanis­laus embod­ied to the fullest. His joy came not from achieve­ments, but from doing sim­ple things with extra­or­di­nary love. His actions reflect­ed a soul so in tune with divine pur­pose that even silence became a form of praise.

What fur­ther set him apart was the peace that flowed from his dis­ci­pline. Fel­low novices observed that he nev­er com­plained, nev­er drew atten­tion to him­self, and nev­er failed to com­plete a task. Dur­ing prayer, he seemed ful­ly absorbed, often remain­ing still for long peri­ods with an expres­sion of seren­i­ty. His behav­ior was nev­er rigid or forced; it was the nat­ur­al result of his inte­ri­or union with God. Even when fatigued or ill, he car­ried out his respon­si­bil­i­ties with gen­tle­ness and resolve. Car­di­nal Com­men­doni once wit­nessed Stanis­laus greet him in a mod­est, unas­sum­ing way, com­plete­ly uncon­cerned about his appear­ance or social stand­ing. In that moment, the car­di­nal saw a kind of dig­ni­ty that came not from rank but from grace.

Stanislaus’s novice­ship reveals a deep­er truth about sanctity—it often takes shape not in moments of grandeur, but in the qui­et rep­e­ti­tion of faith-filled ser­vice. His life stood as a qui­et rebuke to world­ly mea­sures of impor­tance. He did not seek com­fort, atten­tion, or spe­cial treat­ment. Instead, he lived as if every moment, no mat­ter how small, mat­tered deeply in the eyes of God. To car­ry wood was to serve Christ. To sweep the floor was to pre­pare a place for heav­en. This spir­i­tu­al lens trans­formed every­thing he touched.

The chap­ter invites read­ers to con­sid­er how much of true great­ness lies hid­den in the every­day. Stanis­laus reminds us that spir­i­tu­al matu­ri­ty is not mea­sured by how much one is seen, but by how much one serves. His short life was not filled with dra­mat­ic con­ver­sions or pub­lic mir­a­cles, but with a con­sis­tent faith­ful­ness that left a last­ing mark. For him, holi­ness was not a des­ti­na­tion, but a way of living—one where every breath, every chore, and every prayer was a step toward God. In the sim­plic­i­ty of his actions, he teach­es that true sanc­ti­ty begins in the heart, and it reveals itself most clear­ly through love poured into ordi­nary things.

His time as a novice may not have last­ed the full two years, but in those months, he lived the essence of the Jesuit call­ing with clar­i­ty and con­vic­tion. Even today, his exam­ple res­onates with those seek­ing mean­ing in the qui­et paths of life. He shows that any­one, at any age or sta­tion, can achieve greatness—not by striv­ing to be noticed, but by sur­ren­der­ing whol­ly to the will of God in the present moment. Through the hid­den holi­ness of Saint Stanis­laus Kost­ka, the chap­ter becomes a call to rec­og­nize that what is done with love is nev­er small in the king­dom of heav­en.