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The Judas Touch

It was a sultry summer day, and our family had just returned home from a week-and-a-half of much appreciated rest and relaxation in the mountains of northwest Georgia. We pulled into the driveway, and as the kids piled out of the car, I called out, "Everyone take in at least one thing as you go!" I hit the button on the remote for the garage door and climbed out of the car. Before the garage door had fully opened, we heard the phone ring.

"Take a message, and tell them we'll call back," Teri, my wife, said to our oldest daughter, trying to spare me the last few hours of vacation. But my daughter was back within seconds saying, "It's Dave Anderson, and he needs to talk to Dad. He said it's very important, and he sounds real upset."

Again Teri covered for me: "I'll take it. You finish unpacking." But she returned shortly with one of those looks that suggested something was wrong. "Dave sounds really bad, like he's been crying. Just go. The girls and I will finish here."

As I drove the five ...

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