Many years ago I spent five fantastic weeks in Boston during the fall. Though I had heard about the explosive colors of autumn in New England, it truly was a sight to see. So too were the two games I attended at Fenway Park, only a year after the Red Sox swept the Rockies in the World Series. But the fondest memory I have from my time there was the treatment I received from several Southern transplant families who were in a Bible study at a local Presbyterian church (at the time I was both Presbyterian and a part-time student at Reformed Theological Seminary).
One family, originally from North Carolina, allowed me to park my car outside their suburban home so I didn’t have to pay the additional garage fees at my hotel in the city (they also hosted me for a meal every weekend). Another from Georgia met me a few times for dinner, while yet another from Kentucky had me over for beers a couple of evenings. All of it meant the world to a young single guy in a new city who would have otherwise spent most of that time reading alone at a bar near his hotel, just to keep away the loneliness blues.
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