Seeing Yourself as Christ Sees You

A dear sister-in-the-Lord recently shared her enthusiasm with me in regards to 6 pounds she had shed. I smiled and congratulated her and gave her a big hug. Six pounds – an awesome accomplishment, indeed! Of course she looked the exact same to me as she did before she lost the 6 pounds but I kept that little realization to myself. In other words, I thought she was perfect. Her physical beauty and her spiritual beauty were so interconnected, from my perspective, that had she gained weight I would not have noticed either. But those few pounds made a difference in how she viewed herself and how she believed the world viewed her.


My own self-perception is just as fragile. I have never been known to purchase clothes that actually fit. I view myself as needing clothes that are always at least one size larger than the “real” me. My own body image still suffers as a result of many comments made to me while I was a young teenager.


Body image is something that affects almost all women – even Catholic women. Never mind that we understand that we’ve been created in His image and that we are perfect just the way we are – assuming we haven’t been told by a medical professional of a need to change a diet due to diabetes, heart disease etc. – we still find ourselves questioning our shape, our weight, our appearance.


Maybe the summer has taken a toll on your body image as you’ve maneuvered your way through the swimwear department and have barely survived. Or maybe this was the year you gave up short sleeve shirts altogether and suffered through a heat wave as if you were a southern belle quite used to fanning yourself for hours on end. Summer is a great time to examine your own body image because it is difficult to hide your uneasiness as you attempt to find clothes to cover your “flaws” that won’t make you pass out in the heat.


In the end, summer is a time to love who you are as a daughter of the King. Embrace your imperfections and your image battles. Consider the ways they can make you a better daughter, sister and friend.


Summer is a great time for all of us to make a concerted effort to see ourselves as Christ sees us rather than how we may have been conditioned to see ourselves.

Going to Sleep Before Going to Italy

There have always been two places I wanted to travel to in my lifetime: Israel and Italy.

 Italy became a reality after years of saving; it was our 25th wedding anniversary destination.

Even though I have been travelling since I was eight and put on board a plane to cross the country to visit my father for the summer, I’m really not much of a traveler. I don’t travel well. In fact what I’ve discovered about myself is that I’m a great “signer-upper” but when the actual time comes for the thing, I’m not near as excited about it as I was when I signed up.

Recognizing this about myself, I made sure to keep my foibles in check as our trip of a lifetime neared. One way I was going to combat my idiosyncrasies was to quiz as many people as I could and gather information about international travel. This was going to be the adventure of a lifetime and I was going to enjoy every part of it even if it killed me.

One of my biggest concerns was in regards to sleeping on the plane. I’m not a great sleeper as it is—never have been—so this was a hurdle I was determined to jump with the ease of an Olympian. I gathered information and tips like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter. I kept reminding myself that millions of people sleep on planes. It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

Needless to say, in the back of my mind the pressure to be able to sleep on the plane kept increasing. I knew that the thing about international travel is such that you have to sleep on the plane because when you land you are off for the first day of you trip—the trip that cost you your life savings.

The pressure was mounting and the trip was two months out.

Sometimes panic would seize me in the middle of the day and I would just breathe deep and let it pass.

I would say things to my grown sons like “Remember that your brothers should always be important to you,” and “Make sure that you will always see each other at Christmas time,” and “Marry wives who will welcome your brothers in their homes,” and “Please divide my jewelry fairly among yourselves.”

At one point my husband reprimanded me and said, “Cheryl! We’re going to Italy! You haven’t been given a death sentence!”

Oh yeah.

I’m not sure why but in my heart and mind there wasn’t much of a difference as the day quickly approached. I fondly remembered when I had signed up for this trip and it was just a vision, something I could talk about in the abstract. Now it was here and so I frantically compiled my list of tips:

1. Take a Tylenol P.M. when you get to the airport (nope; I’m allergic to Tylenol)

2. Drink a glass of wine when you get to the airport (again, allergies)

3. Make sure to have some sort of shawl—preferably a pashmina (finally something I could do—bought it)

4. Have a small pillow to sleep on (check)

5. Use ear plugs to block out the sound (check)

6. Use an eye mask to keep out the light (check again—I’m on a roll)

7. Use a mild and relaxing scent to help calm your nerves since you can’t take Tylenol or drink wine (this was my own brilliant idea)

8. Don’t even get your meager sleep the night before so that your body will give in to exhaustion (another brilliant idea that I came up with)

So it was that the day arrived and with my “peace and calming” essential oil, small head pillow, ear plugs, eye mask and red-wool pashmina shawl in tow I boarded the plane departing from Michigan to Italy having not slept, at that point, for about 20 hours.

Here’s how it is supposed to work: You get served your meal right away once in the air so that you can eat and get to sleep. Even the airlines understand this whole need for sleep and I was grateful they were on my side.

About an hour after being on board, and still sitting on the runway, we were begrudgingly told by the pilot that there were problems with the lavatories on the plane. There were airline maintenance personnel coming on and getting off the plane as if it were a subway system. They were taping areas off and we were told to stay seated (did I mention that someone tipped me off to possible blood clots from sitting on a plane too long so at this point my legs were in constant motion—toes pointed out, toes pointed in, toes pointed out, toes pointed in).

My husband kept glancing at me as I’m sure 25 years into this whole marriage thing he knew that my panic was just barely being held below the surface.

Finally, after three hours on the runway, we were told that we would be able to take off. The only problem (right after the blood clots…) was that they weren’t able to fix the two broken lavs which left only two for us travelers trapped in the blood-clot forming section. To make matters worse, we weren’t allowed to use the perfectly fine lavs in first class so most of the 3,000 people on board would have to use the working one which was—you guessed it—3 seats away from me.

Seriously?

But by all appearances I remained calm.

So we eat and I am now ready to get to sleep. I’m buoyed by all the paraphernalia which will surely induce a relaxing somber and rejuvenate my well-being. My husband is instructed by me to wrangle the bag out of the overhead compartment so I can retrieve said paraphernalia.

I’ve been given a light blanket by the attendant and now am in a quandary about the need for my pashmina so it goes in and out of the bag (and overhead compartment) approximately three times. I finally settle on needing it but wonder why my husband won’t take his seat. Apparently he is tired of the up and down and rearranging and has opted to wait until my ritual is completed and I am sound asleep—or dead from blood clots—until he will sit down again.

I arrive at my solution and pull the pashmina around my shoulders and lay the blanket across my lap.

I sprinkle a few drops of “peace and calming” essential oil on my small head pillow and ignore my husband’s growl of “What the hell is that smell?!” to which I say through gritted teeth, “It is peace and calming oil!”

I make an attempt to push the foam ear plugs into my ears, not knowing that you need to sort of twist them and let them open up in your ears.

I cover my eyes with the mask and fasten the Velcro and prepare for a deep sleep as I lay my head back on the pillow.

No more than five seconds later, the silky, elastic eye mask starts creeping up to the top of my head and flings off while the foam ear plugs fly out and sweat breaks out on my forehead from the heat of all the coverings. I’m a bit nauseous from the smell of the oil and my pillow, as it is cupped in a non-removable pillow on the head piece of the seat, is pushing my head forward in an unnatural awkward way—unless I do throw up and then it is a perfect position.

And my husband, God bless him, is still standing in the aisle amidst the 3,000 people who are now in line for the restroom. He is waiting, patiently, for me to ask for the bag back from the overhead bin so that he can finally get to sleep.

Boys Will, Indeed, Be Boys

I remember when my first son was in need of his first haircut.  I took him to a professional stylist and, with 35mm camera in hand, clicked away, literally walking around and around his seat, so that, once developed, the pictures would immortalize that very special day in my life, in his life, in the world, I was sure.

By the time my third son was in need of his first haircut, I let my mom have at it and, as it turned out, time did not improve her hair-cutting skills.  My youngest son ended up with the same bangs that I had worn some 30 years earlier — a wavy line of hair jutting out all over the place somewhere between eyebrows and the hairline.

Things really do change from the first born to the second and then to the third.  And as that is all the children we were blessed with, I can go no further with my experience but my assumptions would be that by the fifth or sixth child, he or she may very well be performing his or her own first haircut.

Now, my oldest is now a college graduate and owns his first home, the second is a semester away from graduation and the third has begun his college years. All the years in between those first haircuts and this point in time have truly gone by in the blink of an eye.

I can’t say, for sure, what each of my son’s take on things has been; but, for me it has been an incredible journey.  And I’ll admit that I look back and find great relief that my oldest, in particular, has been so forgiving towards me in all the ways I tried to shape and mold him into what I thought was right — and certainly in keeping with my post-feminist upbringing which included the need to neutralize any distinctions between the sexes along with my politically-correct interest in taming all things that could even appear to have a glimmer of “inappropriateness” attached to them.

I remember once when my mother was reading a book to my oldest son.  She came to some point in the story where, when my husband and I read it, we had always chosen to replace some word or phrase with more “proper” words, but not knowing better, grandma read the actual words.  Well, when he heard her reading it verbatim, he was on the floor laughing, “Grandma! It does not say that!” So much for our attempt at politically-correct censorship.

No matter how hard I tried, though, he was still a “boy.”  And that means something. They all were, actually, very much “boys.”  For instance, they simply weren’t able to pass each other in the hall without a push and a shove for good luck.  Try as I might to dissuade them, they were just so “physical” all the time! I once received a note from a teacher who, in all seriousness, felt it was imperative to tell me that my son, while playing “Duck-Duck-Goose” became so mischievous that he tapped two children instead of one!  I can only imagine the pandemonium that ensued and my son received from me the sternest of warning against such wild classroom antics. At the time I was duly mortified that I would have birthed the child who wreaked havoc with “Duck-Duck-Goose” rules.

Of course, despite such notes and other miscellaneous offenses along the way, my boys were, in fact, quite good kids — in the grand scheme of things. Sure there were times that I was forced to walk away from parent-teacher conferences with a piece of paper held in front of my face in hopes of obscuring my identity as I made a beeline towards the door; but, all in all they were really fine young boys on their way growing into fine young men.

It’s just that I didn’t have brothers and couldn’t figure out why these boys of mine wouldn’t sit down and play quietly with one another or do their puzzles in an orderly fashion.  I could fondly recall how my sisters and I would play school for hours on end. Not a peep out of us as we wrote on the chalkboard and assigned one another “homework.”

The closest my boys came to that sort of quiet, structured, group play was when they were building Legos; but, for the most part, even that time was spent constructing weapons or creating scenarios in which caves, hideouts and counter-attack strategies were necessary.  This, after having been exposed to the dullest of television choices — which were extremely time-limited anyhow — and don’t forget censorship galore on all books!

One dinner, when the boys were around 2, 4, and 6 I remember one of them eating a piece of bread into the shape of a gun and being completely convinced that I had failed as a mother.

“How,” I moaned to my husband, “could they even know about such things?!”

Boys will be boys.

Now that’s a phrase I’m none too fond of but there is some truth to the fact that, well, boys will be boys.  However, if we understand it not as an excuse for bad behavior but, rather, being a plausible testament to some basic genetic truths, we are able to more sufficiently appreciate how God created male and female and the path on which each will proceed towards developing virtuous behaviors and moral choices.  Denying the genetic and natural differences between male and female will not make them go away.

And as a mother of all boys — and never having had any brothers — I have grown to love the way in which God has made male and female.  Raising boys has given me a new appreciation of my husband and how, if we are called to the vocation of marriage, we grow in beautiful ways when we embrace the unique gifts and talents and personalities of male and female.

I am fully convinced that God knew what he was doing when, in His immense wisdom, He gave me all sons.  I have learned so much about our Creator through my life as a mother of boys.  So many of the ill-conceived notions about gender-neutrality, which was part and parcel of my life as a teenager in the post-radical-feminist-movement that pervaded the 70s, have been washed away in the Truth about male and female, their inherent differences, their shared dignity, their beauty as having been created, equally but diverse, in His image, His likeness.

As my own sons grow into men, I am grateful for the gifts they have received from their Creator and feel blessed that I discovered, sooner rather than later, how important their unique “maleness” is and how it has been a gift to participate in helping them grow into all that God has called them to be as they venture out into the world as men.

Garbage Cans and Purgatory

Our kitchen garbage can is actually 24 years old. I bought it when I was pregnant with my oldest son, Jared. And it really is in good condition, considering its age. As my dear step-father would say, it doesn't owe me anything.

The only problem with it is that the lid's opening is in front, versus on the top. So to throw trash away, you have to use your hand -- or the actual trash -- to push the flap in and then you can throw your garbage away by opening your hand and letting it drop. Sometimes it is best to just lift the lid off and throw things away -- this is particularly true with coffee grounds.

Anyhow, it all works perfectly fine for my husband and I but the boys inevitably get the lid covered with food and I am washing the flap of the lid at least 3 times a week.

I recently saw a really nice shiny, new garbage can that had an automatic lid. It is an actual motion sensor so whenever you wave your trash near the lid it opens up -- from the top -- and you can drop your trash in without getting it everywhere. It is battery-powered. I bought it.

When my husband John walked in from work the other day, he looked at the box, read the words "Automatic Lid!" and remained quiet, God bless him.

Then, on the weekend, he patiently opened the box and put the trash can together with its batteries in the lid. Barely speaking a word as he worked, I knew he was going to support me in my quest for a kitchen garbage can that required less clean up. Or at least that’s the story I choose to believe.

Once the can was put together and turned “on,” John lovingly smiled at me (I’m pretty sure it was a smile of love) -- his job was done -- and then he walked past the garbage can and towards the living room.

John's movement was detected by the lid and the lid dutifully opened. Hmmm....we wondered how far the motion detector worked on the thing and soon discovered that the only way to avoid activating the lid was to hug the wall opposite the can, or belly crawl, as we passed.

And still not a word from John as he read through the instructions to see if the lid would work without batteries. Nope.

As I went to get the packaging so we could return the can, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

My Aunt Polly always says that John is going straight to Heaven. "No Purgatory time for this man," is what she says.

I finally agree.

Lot's Wife Syndrome

By Cheryl Dickow

JUN. 16, 2011 (www.BezalelBooks.com)  -  When I get invited to speak at women’s events, by far the most popular topic is my “Embracing the Matriarch Within” presentation. This is due, in no small part, to the fact that the topic literally animates me while I speak. In fact, if someone were to tie my hands together and mark an “X” where I was expected to stand, I believe I would become mute.

Yes, I’m a spectacle when I speak – very much like I was when I taught in parochial middle school. I was a veritable jumping bean of enthusiasm for our faith, much to the chagrin of my students.

Fortunately for me, adult women are far more tolerant of my delivery methods than were my students.

No doubt they feel and see that I love talking about Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Leah and are quick to understand that what excites me will soon excite each of them.

What I have come to realize is that women tend to completely underestimate the great honor that we each have as matriarchs in our own families.

I’ve also come to see, with great interest, is that one of the women who speaks volumes to women is Lot’s wife.

I know this because of all the comments I receive after the presentation.

“Wow, I never thought about Lot’s wife that way.”

“Gee, Lot’s wife taught me a lot today.”

“I will never look at Lot’s wife the same way again.”

Lot’s wife? You are probably asking yourself about now. Wasn’t she the gal who turned into a pillar of salt? Oh yeah, her life’s message is about obedience. She teaches us to listen and obey. And the excitement about her is because . . . .

And I’ll give you that you’d be half right if this is how you respond to hearing about Lot’s wife and the lesson that we are able to learn from her life.

But when I present my topics on the Matriarchs, I purposely include a number of other women – like Lot’s wife – who, upon closer examination have a deeper message for women today. Women who are not, by strict Jewish standards, considered “Matriarchs” but who, by the very essence of how they lived and what we can cull from their lives, deserve the title in a more esoteric way.

For instance, when I specifically speak about Lot’s wife, I share my belief that while the obvious message is one of obedience, the subtler message is one of “letting go.”

But let’s face it; women tend to struggle with the reality of living either message whether it is one of obedience or one of letting go. I’m not intentionally discriminating against men here. I’m just sharing my direct, personal experiences with women as friends, sisters-in-the-Lord, colleagues, and those I speak with at conferences.

Given our fallen nature, obedience is something we strive daily to attain but more than likely isn’t something we continually succeed at; likewise, letting go of past pains, hurts, and wrong-doings is not quite a woman’s strong suit either.

Women, I have come to see, suffer from what I now like to call “Lot’s Wife Syndrome.”

And I will freely admit to Lot’s Wife Syndrome being a chronic disease in my life, as well. This is probably why I have become so adept at recognizing it.

Every woman I know who is struggling with letting go of something from the past does so because her own heart has been pierced but also because it is in her nature to “hang on” and “persevere” – even with all her baggage in tow. (Here’s where you see me hauling my imaginary baggage across the stage and why I can’t be committed to speaking without hand gestures or being confined to a particular spot.)

Don’t get me wrong about these traits because they are the exact same traits – hanging on and persevering – that make each and every woman an excellent Matriarch candidate. The Matriarchs proper (Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Leah) remind us that we are able to be strong in the most difficult of circumstances and that we have an inherent ability to hold our families together through sheer will, want, and prayer. We learn from the Matriarchs how to rely on God’s grace and mercy. They set the groundwork for us to understand that Mary’s fiat is to our earthly lives what Christ’s death and resurrection is to our eternal life.

But life is about balance and so women need to learn how to balance their ability to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders with the need to let go of some of it – especially if they carry it to their own peril.

Lot’s wife didn’t want to let go of her ____; that blank can be filled in many different ways:

Lot’s wife didn’t want to let go of her life as she knew it.

Lot’s wife didn’t want to let go of her pain.

Lot’s wife didn’t want to let go of her hopes and dreams.

Lot’s wife didn’t want to let go of her sorrows as they had become her best friends.

And in not letting go, Lot’s wife paid the ultimate price – her life.

Now change the subject of the sentence to suit your own life:

________ did want to let go of her life as she knew it.

________ did want to let go of her pain.

________ did want to let go of her hopes and dreams.

________ did want to let go of her sorrows as they had become her best friends.

Maybe Lot’s wife was going to have one last look and then planned on throwing herself a pity party. Who knows? But I dare say we’ve all been there, done that. Knowing that it is in our own best interest to let go, leave the past behind, we still manage to make use of pains, hurts, sorrows or broken dreams in one way or another.

Did you know that heart disease is the number one cause of death for American women? This is according to the American Heart Association.

I offer that sidebar of information because it seems to make the lessons of Lot’s wife all the more pertinent for women today. “Letting go” allows our bodies a modicum of stress-relief and frees us to laugh and enjoy more of life. Laughter produces the endorphins and neurotransmitters that reduce stress – often a contributing factor to heart disease. And while I am no doctor, I know that the heavier the load we drag behind us, the more burden it places on our minds, bodies and especially our hearts – emotionally and physically – and thus is best left behind. (Imagine me dragging my baggage ever more slowly across the stage, now stooped by its burdensome weight and size.)

All this isn’t to say that we ought to let go of things without having first let them serve their purpose in our lives. After all, it is often the things that wound us most that also allow us to build virtues such as compassion, kindness, forgiveness and fortitude. But there is a fine line between the building of virtuous characteristics and sending invitations to a full-blown pity party.

We aren’t meant to become martyrs in our own eyes but should be witnessing to the facets of a faith that will draw others in. That involves experiencing pain and sorrow, regret and dashed dreams, as well as what we do with those experiences. Here’s where Lot’s wife becomes a blatant reminder: Do Not Look Back!

This also isn’t to suggest that certain damages, neglects, or abuses from one’s past should be taken lightly or will be forgotten just through sheer, brute will. And in some cases it is clear that professional counseling or services is a necessary part of “letting go.”

But for most of us, letting go is simply a daily “giving over” to Christ. It is that moment in the morning when our thoughts and words turn to Jesus and we share our trust in Him and how He will guide our day, ever at our side.

Editor’s Note: Cheryl Dickow is the author of “Our Jewish Roots: A Catholic Woman’s Guide to Fulfillment Today by Connecting with Her Past.” Cheryl’s website is www.BezalelBooks.com and her phone number is 248-917-3865. 
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The cycle continues

A Baby's Baby

The cycle continues

By Arwen Mosher

Camilla runs past me and I pull her in for a hug, which she loves.

She kicks her feet and giggles delightedly as I nuzzle her neck. I whisper, “I love you, baby girl.”

Suddenly she’s serious, twisting to meet my eyes with her wide ones. “No, Mom. I’m a big girl!”

(“Mom!” It just kills me.)

“Of course you are, sweetie, but you’ll always be MY baby.”

Camilla laughs as if she thinks I might be teasing her, but her tone is indignant. “I already just told you! I’m not a baby!”

It seems like minutes ago I was rolling my eyes at my own mother, who kept insisting - long after I was far too big to sit on her lap - that I would always be her baby. Now that I’ve got children of my own, I understand exactly what she meant.

My daughter’s limbs were once tiny and wrinkled, then chubby and dimpled. They are long and slender now, and will only continue to grow. She won’t go back to being a real baby, not ever.

Camilla doesn’t remember the day I first kissed the fuzz on her newborn head. She won’t. Instead, she’ll remember growing bigger, more independent, less tolerant of being called a baby by her sentimental mother.

Someday, though, she might kiss a newborn head of her own. Then she’ll understand how that moment sticks around and how, in a certain sense, a baby is always a baby to her mother.

My mom still says it sometimes, but I never roll my eyes at her now. I get it.

(Love you, Mom!)

Full Story

Mary at Pentecost

Mary at Pentecost
Finding My Vocation in Her Example

By Sarah Reinhard

I find myself turning to Mary quite a bit in my role as mother. What I have found, when I look to her Pentecost example, is a series of lessons that inspire me to seek her Son in every moment of my day.

All women are called to motherhood.

Many aspects of this vocation didn’t feel natural to me at first. Maybe it’s that I didn’t feel that I deserved the many blessings I found coming to me as I went through my first pregnancy and labor.

Holding my first daughter, I thought of the women I knew who struggled with infertility, with a longing for more children, with miscarriages. I thought of the single women I knew who felt the pull toward marriage, but had no prospects.
I came to appreciate the different types of motherhood, and came to see that spiritual motherhood is a unique role women have been given by God.

There are women who have empty nests and wisdom to share and women with schedules crowded with sippy cups and diapers. But, perhaps unnoticed, there are also women who are single with a great passion for children and women with less children on earth than they have in heaven or in their heart.

In Pentecost, we see the Church as a family gathered together, Mom in our midst. Mary is there with the Apostles, and she encourages me to look around, at my fellow women, and be inspired by their examples of motherhood in all its forms.

We have to start with the present (and our presence).

By the time of Pentecost, the regular band of disciples must have been like a large extended family. And Mary must have been a warm, familiar sight to them. They were worried, and probably a little unsure.

In the Upper Room, Mary shows me the importance of the present, and the significance my mere presence can play. She didn’t miss any of the big events in her Son’s life, from His first step to His first miracle, from His Passion to His Resurrection.

It’s only natural that she’s in the Upper Room, and it underlines the importance of the here-and-now moment in each of our lives. God doesn’t ask us to pine for the past or live in the future; He holds the present before us as a gift given.

In the same way, I see that my presence makes such a difference in people’s lives. While I am not able to be all things to all people – or to be in all places at one time – I can focus my efforts and use Mary’s quiet example at Pentecost as a guiding light.

God is with us in our pain.

I had been dating my husband for a few years when his sister buried a baby. I had never experienced anything like what I witnessed in the months before and after the baby’s birth. We knew the baby would not be healthy, and we knew the likelihood was great that there would be a funeral following the birth. In fact, the doctors were disgusted that she did not have the abortion they scheduled.

On the day of the funeral, I saw my future husband sit tall and straight, his eyes red, even as I saw the grieving father in the front row sit with two young girls on his lap and his arm around his wife.

I had never witnessed grief of that sort, but I had also never seen the kind of hope I saw that day either. There were no recriminations. There were tears, and there was sorrow, but there was also peace.

Did my sister-in-law doubt God’s presence in the midst of her pain? Has she ever shaken her fist, sobbed her heart out, wondered at the cross she carries? When she found herself, once again, at the foot of the Cross with Mary, did she just stop and let Mary hold her?

In my sister-in-law’s example over the years, I have seen how her motherhood extended beyond her four children, two of whom were held first by the Blessed Mother. I watched her embrace other children, care for people, and give of herself unconditionally. She has been, for me, a model of trusting in God’s presence, even through pain beyond imagining.

Our Lady of the Cenacle, pray for us.

Above all, Pentecost gives me another way to invoke Mary. Here she is, patiently waiting. She knows what I’ve gone through, and she knows that there’s hardship ahead. But she smiles anyway. The greatest joy, as she knows so well, comes from always saying “Yes” to God.

—Sarah Reinhard writes online at SnoringScholar.com.

Resources:

• Resources for Spiritual Motherhood
• Mulieris Dignitatem, by John Paul II
• Rosarium Virginis Mariae, by John Paul II
• “On Mary’s Maternal Presence at Pentecost”