By Msgr. Noel C. Burtenshaw

You can feel the approach of Spring. The cozy warm temperatures climb higher every day. Soon Atlanta's winter will be past.

Past -- yes, but not forgotten.

It will be remembered most especially by the homeless men and women of the city streets who found themselves caught without beds and warm shelter on many nights of the winter of 1981. For that reason and in that emergency, Central Presbyterian Church and their helpers came to the rescue.

The grand old church, across from the golden-domed Capitol, opened its doors and donated the floors of its gymnasium each night, free of charge to the homeless. Groups of volunteers bagging the sandwiches and policing the program into successful action gathered around to help. Betti Knott, director of the citywide St. Vincent de Paul Society, coordinated the volunteers and it worked.

"Each night," said Betti, "we took between 120 and 180 folks and gave them warmth and protection. The volunteers were plenty. We had very few problems. Great good was done."

And so it was. Many lives that eventually would have become frozen street statistics were kept alive because of the night shelter at Central Presbyterian.

Each evening, duty for the spic-and-span volunteer begins at 6:30 p.m. As you wind your way through the back door of the church to the volunteer room, a line of "guests" is already forming out front. No one wants to miss receiving a space.

Instructions are carefully given each volunteer. Areas for smoking are pointed out. Stations for large, all night tea vats are marked. The room where cards, for stakes of home-rolled cigarettes, are played is inspected. And sandwiches prepared by hands of all faiths are stacked, two for each guest.

By 7:30 p.m., it is time to open the door and graciously welcome our lodgers.

A committee of two or three goes to the front door and brings in our street people in groups of 12 or so. One man acts as official host. He says, most kindly, his words of welcome and also sets down the rules.

"We welcome you in the name of Jesus Christ. We are happy you can share our hospitality. There are a few rules for the safety of all. No fighting. If a fight breaks out, all parties must leave. No weapons or alcohol. If you have them, please give them to one of the volunteers. They will be returned in the morning. We hope you have a restful night."

As each dozen entered, the little speech is repeated. The weapons are handed over -- a small knife, a screwdriver, a bottle here or there. Mostly these men and women of the streets hide their few, precious possessions in plastic trash bags and are too weary to hear the words of welcome. They eagerly want to come in.

At one point, the nice young volunteer repeats his rule of "no drinking." An old, unshaven guest asks, "How about gambling?" Caught off guard, the young man answers, "Well, no, per se."

"What's per se?" asks his listener honestly. "What's that?" The incident passes as the line flows in.

The night has begun at Central.

The volunteer finds himself mixing with the men. The women, only about 10 in number, are in a small room upstairs. The great gym is carved into spaces, claimed by these weary men who now mainly want to get warm and sleep. Some chat in the smoking areas. You see friendships renewed and information exchanged.

The talk is mainly on work and money. "I tell you man, no jobs. Ain't seen anything like it. I was down at the labor pool, I tell you nothin' there -- nothin'. There was 50 guys in line for one job. Man, it's real, real bad."

The talk goes on. "Man, if I had three dollars tonight, I'd be over at the Recovery Center. They ask you no questions about you being an alcoholic or not. For your three dollars, you get some TV, a bunk and its nice. But I ain't got no three dollars."

Some have needs. "You got a smoke?" the young black man asks the older white man who is pulling hard on a cigarette. "This is all I got." "How about a drag?" Without hesitation it's handed over. Thanks are nodded.

And the night goes on.

The insomniacs drink tea and smoke in allotted areas. Some will engage in conversation. Others, suspicious, will not. You ask them where they are from and the history pours out. "From East Tennessee originally. I still go back there in summer and pick vegetables. In the winter, I head for Florida. You can get a job down there near Fort Myers pickin' fruit, workin' in the fields. This time of year there's always jobs in Atlanta but not this year. Never seen anything like it. No work."

You decide maybe this one can be probed a little. How come he's on the streets? Why not go back to East Tennessee and settle down.

"Had a wife and kids up there," comes the answer. "She was a hard woman. Still see her and the kids. But can't go back. Too many memories." He walks away. You know the probe is over.

The job of the volunteer is easy. These men have no intention of wandering through the building. They are quietly on the wood floor, exhausted from their city wanderings. Very soon the night sounds of deep breathing and occasional snores resound. Those reassuring sounds of contentment and security are heard throughout the night.

All are alert and active at 5:30 the next morning. The guests must be on the street at 6:00 and the volunteers need to mop and clean the gymnasium.

Personal belongings are neatly gathered into the plastic bags. In groups, they leave. Each is handed a granola bar which serves a breakfast. "I'll be back tonight. If I don't get a job, I'll get a meal at St. Luke's kitchen. But I hope I'm lucky. I haven't had a job in two weeks. Maybe today." The grin of hope lights up the face.

The cold air hits him as he leaves Central to face the city, not yet awake. He heads down to Marietta Street to wait in the labor pool. If he's lucky he will land a job on a building site or cleaning up an apartment building. For his day's work he will be paid the minimum hourly wage. It won't buy much. He will manage. Soon it will be Spring, it will be warm again.

Tonight he will have Central Presbyterian Church once more.