When you stop to think about it, your family grows as life progresses. I’m not just talking about our immediate families. I was fortunate to grow up with a huge extended family, which consists of dozens of cousins and even more second cousins. There’s our church family, our community family, and our circle of friends. But there are also those families we were part of for a short time and never saw again.

During my week in New Orleans, I was lucky to be among a family of over 600 authors. I didn’t meet every one of them, but there was a powerful feeling in the conference center; a sense that said, “We’re all in this together, and we’re glad to be here.”

And then there was my other New Orleans family of twelve: Manay, Robert, Miss Nanette, Jeff, Monique, Brandon, George, George’s wife, Charlie, and three members whose names I never learned. These people went out of their way to transport me around the city, help me with directions, solve some minor problems, serve me amazing food, and pour me huge martinis.

Monique, who worked for a cab service, picked me up from the airport on my day of arrival. Brandon, a Boy Scout volunteer and budding entrepreneur from Katy, Texas, worked for the same service and drove me back to the airport at the end of my stay. We had a nice chat, and he promised to buy my book.

Charlie, who worked at the Pontchartrain Hotel, helped me find my misplaced books that were delivered for my book signing. A local woman, whose name I don’t remember, helped me, along with an elderly couple from Georgia, George and his wife, whom I met on the Streetcar, as we tried to find our way to Café du Monde. She was headed to a restaurant in the French Quarter to buy a rotisserie chicken for her grandson. She suggested we take the route along the Mississippi River and decided to join us. George, Mrs. George, and I enjoyed a nice visit over chicory coffee and beignets before wandering over to St. Louis Basilica, where we parted ways—though not before sharing laughs and photos. I attended a weekday mass, but it was hard to focus on the service because after all that coffee, my bladder was about to burst. On the way to the Basilica, I noticed most of the businesses posted “No Public Restroom” signs. There was no way I could make it back to the hotel to use the facilities. Luckily, the deacon had not left the vestibule and graciously directed me to the restroom inside the rectory. He told me to ring the bell and tell the woman who answered that the deacon sent me.

Later that week, I realized I had ordered too many books for the conference, so I would have to mail them home. The fee charged by the hotel’s FedEx service was enough for a down payment on a car, so I decided to find a USPS station. Concierges Manay and Robert helped me study the city map to locate the closest one. After fifteen minutes and lots of laughs, we found it. I gave them signed copies of my book, we took pictures, and now they are part of my family.

Then there was the taxi driver, whose name I didn’t understand because he was from a country I’d never heard of, who took me to the post office, carried my heavy packages, and patiently waited while I packed them up and sent them home. No sherpa or waiting charge, and another new family member.

And finally, I get to Miss Nanette and Jeff, who work at my favorite New Orleans restaurant, Felix’s Oyster Bar. Miss Nanette is the hostess, and Jeff is the bartender. I’d only planned to dine there on Friday night, but I came back on Saturday and Sunday nights because the food is that good and the atmosphere is genuine old New Orleans — not fancy, not glitzy, not pretentious, just excellent food and friendly folks. When I returned on Saturday night, Miss Nanette joked that she couldn’t let me in because I didn’t look old enough to be in a bar, and Jeff was already mixing my martini just the way I like it before I even sat down. Sunday night, I brought them signed copies of my book. Sure, I was happy to do this, but I also hope for a couple of positive reviews in return.

On my last day in New Orleans, another new family member reminded me that I wasn’t there just to receive, but also to give. After attending Sunday Mass at the basilica, I wandered through the French Quarter to buy a few gifts to bring home. A homeless man standing on a corner politely asked if I could give him four dollars. I simply shook my head and kept walking. I wondered why he asked for four dollars instead of five or ten, or why he didn’t just ask if I could spare a few bucks. Then it hit me. The amount didn’t matter. Whether or not he really needed money didn’t matter. What mattered was that I ignored him. I thought of all those people who helped me during the week. They didn’t question my needs or judge my intentions; they assisted without hesitation. So I went into a shop, bought some snacks, put four dollars in the bag, brought it back to him, and wished him a nice day. I didn’t give him much, but what he gave me was priceless.