THERE IS SOMETHING TRULY BIZARRE in the fact that at precisely the moment when much of America is focusing on the advent of Christmas and its message of deep concern for the poor, we are simultaneously engaged in a furious political battle over matters of budget and whether, among other questions, taxing the very wealthy more and the very much less wealthy less is legitimate policy. Unless, that is, one is an advocate of the relatively new but growing Prosperity Gospel, which holds that Christ was essentially a wealthy man and inclined to reward the faithful with both financial prosperity and spiritual gifts. Which movement, of course, would have a tiny bit of a problem not only with a rich scholarship concerning that period but with Mark 10:17-25: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” I believe I will hang in there a bit longer with the notion that the Christ I was introduced to in my earlier years as a Catholic was considerably more deeply committed to the plight of the poor than the prosperity of the rich!

However, today I want to put my own political passions and any religious interpretations to rest and focus on what is for me a quite different set of commitments, with their own passionate content.

In a prior column I have written of a deep personal interest in issues of domestic violence and of my involvement in that set of problems. Today I want to comment further.

In the belly of the Depression, in 1934, my mother, stepfather, brother and I had moved from Madison, Wis., to a 40-acre homestead in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. After leaving the farm, we moved, sans stepfather, to the small village of Rockland, population 700, where my grandfather lived and where my mother had been raised. There I finished high school.

In a village of that size, folks tend to know a great deal more, of course, about each others’ lives than is the case in urban and suburban life. However, as a boy living with a non-gossip-oriented grandfather (my mother worked in the city to support us), and as a recent addition to the population, I tended to be outside the channels of communication concerning domestic abuse in the village. Nonetheless, it inserted itself into my life.

My high school girlfriend’s father had a tendency to turn mean when drunk; thus it was that sometimes on Saturday night he would “tune up” her mother. I use the common (and masculine) verb of that time —and later times — for the practice. There was a certain amount of rough “joking” about such matters in the tavern and pool hall. My best friend’s father, a highly respected church elder, did not need drink to become abusive with his wife, a very sweet and gentle person, a mail order bride, nor his son — in the name of discipline, of course. I had an uncle, a combat veteran of World War I, who was an abuser of both his wife and oldest son. The latter would run away and stay with us on occasion. And, finally, as with my girlfriend’s parents, the relationship between drinking and abuse was common and obvious. Thus it was that even though I was outside the general lines of communication common to most — and thus lacking in knowledge of the full range of domestic abuse in that small village — I did have a window on the problem and a way of grasping the reality, if not frequency, of domestic violence.

That window was opened much wider for me during the 13 years I spent as a volunteer with the Battered Women’s Alternative Shelter and program. (The name of this excellent program is now Stand — For Families Free of Violence.)

In addition to my three years working directly in the shelter, I talked with innumerable groups, high school classes, college classes and community associations about domestic violence. In that process I developed a rich background in the literature, including a great many specific stories, each of which carried its own painful message and powerful impact.

I will briefly share one story among that large collection that had an extraordinarily powerful and painful effect on me, and which I can never tell — even now — without feeling again the emotions I experienced in first coming upon it. It still packs that power.

What happened was that I had begun to read this richly detailed document with the initial sense that it was an unusual and rewarding story of the achievement of a battered woman who had escaped the pain of her past and built a new life. She changed her name, moved to another state, remarried, had children and a rich and very happy existence. As described, she was a wonderful person, a warm, loving woman, and I emotionally identified with her. I thought it a success story and was simply not prepared for the blow of the short summary ending, with the abuser somehow tracking her location, going to her home and killing her.

Tragically enough, there is an endless supply of stories of violence, of deaths, of beatings, of women and children maimed physically and psychologically. While there is debate about the exact degree, it is clear that domestic violence is very common, widespread and underreported. One conclusion of a 20-year-old study of the Senate Judiciary Committee was that domestic violence was the leading cause of injury to women between the ages of 15 and 44 in the United States. There have been reports that one in six women is likely to be abused by a partner in her lifetime.

While abuse is not limited to the poor, the reality is that living poor is also conducive to frustration and abuse.

To work in the shelter is to be confronted with the consequences. But it was not all grim. The strength and resiliency of many if not most of the women and of the children, when provided the support, counseling and positive environment of the shelter and its outstanding staff, can also be heartwarming. While not an easy living situation, the shelter provides the security within which healing and rebuilding can take place.

I am deeply grateful for the opportunity I had to work in the shelter, for the richness of the experience, and for the relationships I developed both with that extraordinary staff and with the women and children. I remember with considerable pleasure the interaction with the children, the healing quality of sharing lighthearted communication, jokes and the building of relationships of caring. Also a rich memory was the expression by the mothers of the importance for them of having a man developing a relaxed, comfortable relationship with their children.

At the time I was, by the way, unaware that I was the first male to work in the shelter. In general at that time shelters were a female preserve. It apparently worked out, and subsequently other men became involved.

I close with a thought for consideration. Please know that I am fully aware that readers of this piece all have their own special causes and commitments for this season of giving, and Benicia is a giving community. But in the event you find this compelling or there is a faint possibility that your life has given you some connection to or knowledge of this problem, I invite you to join me in making some contribution, however small, to one of the two shelters in the area. I note the addresses below.

Sadly enough in these stressed times, government and outside funding for these programs has been cut, though their needs have obviously not.

Stand — For Families Free of Violence (administrative offices), 1410 Danzig Plaza, Suite 100, Concord, CA 94520

This is the program in which I served as a volunteer. It has a complete range of services. Director Gloria Sandoval has spoken in Benicia. She is an exceptional person and leader.

Lift 3, P.O. Box 2959, Fairfield, CA 94533

Lift 3 includes a full range of programs and services, including crisis shelter, transitional shelter and educational programs.

Jerome Page is a Benicia resident.