Chap­ter XIV – For Greater Things begins as Stanis­laus Kost­ka, though just a novice of nine months, moves clos­er to the moment he long sensed was com­ing. Despite show­ing no vis­i­ble signs of ill­ness, he qui­et­ly reveals to a few that August will be his last month on earth. His con­fi­dence in this is not based on health but on deep spir­i­tu­al insight, which he shares short­ly after a pow­er­ful ser­mon by Peter Can­i­sius. At the time, those around him pay lit­tle atten­tion to his words, assum­ing they are part of his usu­al spir­i­tu­al enthu­si­asm. Yet his demeanor changes in sub­tle ways. He begins to speak more often about heav­en, par­tic­u­lar­ly about the upcom­ing Feast of the Assump­tion, which he insists he will cel­e­brate with the Blessed Virgin—not on earth, but in eter­ni­ty. The cer­tain­ty in his voice doesn’t come from fear, but from hope.

He begins his prepa­ra­tions with qui­et dili­gence, not as some­one struck by pan­ic but as one pack­ing for a long-expect­ed jour­ney. His actions speak of deep peace. A spe­cial devo­tion to Saint Lawrence marks his prayers for the month, and his let­ters become more reflec­tive and delib­er­ate. Most touch­ing is his note to the Vir­gin Mary, which he places near his heart when receiv­ing Com­mu­nion. That act isn’t sym­bol­ic alone—it is a mes­sage of love and trust. He spends his remain­ing days in inten­si­fied prayer, often seen in qui­et cor­ners of the novi­tiate, med­i­tat­ing in still­ness. His con­ver­sa­tions turn more inward, yet they nev­er car­ry sad­ness. Instead, they hold a kind of sacred antic­i­pa­tion, as though he is prepar­ing to meet some­one dear­ly loved after a long absence.

Then, with­out pri­or warn­ing, his body begins to fail. What began as minor dis­com­fort quick­ly pro­gress­es into a mys­te­ri­ous ill­ness that baf­fles even the most obser­vant in the com­mu­ni­ty. Despite this, Stanis­laus remains calm. He asks for con­fes­sion and the sacra­ments, request­ing only a small cru­ci­fix and images of Mary and Saint Ignatius to be placed near him. Word spreads through the novi­tiate, and his broth­ers gath­er in prayer. One by one, they vis­it him, not with fear, but with awe—aware that some­thing holy is hap­pen­ing in their midst. Father Emmanuel de Sa and Father Claude Acqua­vi­va attend him close­ly, not­ing his peace­ful face and unshak­en com­po­sure. Even as fever weak­ens him, his eyes remain clear, reflect­ing a seren­i­ty untouched by pain.

On August 14th, he speaks lit­tle, reserv­ing his strength for final prayers. Those near him describe a light­ness in the room, an atmos­phere more akin to cel­e­bra­tion than grief. As night deep­ens, his breath­ing slows, and with it, the room stills. Sur­round­ed by prayer and love, Stanis­laus pass­es quietly—just as he had fore­told. No strug­gle, no fear, only still­ness, and peace. It is the Assumption’s eve, and many believe he has indeed kept his promise. His body, when exam­ined, shows no vis­i­ble cause for the rapid decline, adding mys­tery to his peace­ful depar­ture. The novices, once skep­ti­cal of his words, now speak of him with rev­er­ence. The let­ter to Mary is found still tucked close to him—a final proof of his unwa­ver­ing devo­tion.

The days that fol­low are filled with qui­et mourn­ing and grow­ing admi­ra­tion. Sto­ries of Stanis­laus’s holi­ness spread through the Jesuit com­mu­ni­ty and beyond. Even those who had doubt­ed now see in his death a kind of silent mir­a­cle. He had pre­pared for it not out of fear but because he believed with absolute cer­tain­ty that his life belonged to God. The novi­tiate chapel, where he had so often prayed in soli­tude, now becomes a place where oth­ers seek to feel the calm he car­ried. His exam­ple begins to influ­ence not only the novices but also the priests, who remem­ber how much grace had been present in such a young and unas­sum­ing soul. The room where he died is regard­ed as sacred. The day of his pass­ing is qui­et­ly hon­ored by those who wit­nessed it—not just for the sad­ness of loss, but for the beau­ty of his going home.

This chap­ter reflects more than a death; it reveals a life ful­filled by pur­pose, grace, and unwa­ver­ing belief. Stanis­laus had not wait­ed for saint­hood to be assigned to him—he had lived it in every act of obe­di­ence, silence, and prayer. His going was not sud­den but fore­told and embraced. He gave the world an exam­ple of a life that did not need to be long to be pow­er­ful. In his final hours, Stanis­laus remind­ed all around him that great­ness lies not in achieve­ment but in love and faith lived with qui­et cer­tain­ty. His sto­ry becomes a time­less call to live with inten­tion, to lis­ten deeply to the voice of God, and to walk unafraid when that voice calls us home.