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Dale Price was a full bird colonel in the military, he was executive director of Canyonview Camp and Bible College in Silverton, Oregon . He was a pastor, a husband (he was married to Ruby for 41 years), a father, a grandfather and, most importantly, a follower and emulator of Jesus. He was also my uncle. When he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer on August 20, 2008, our family was shocked and devastated. He was a life long non smoker and a health nut. How could he get cancer? How would he react. His first book, Two Copper Coins , tells that story. The title of the book comes from the biblical story of the widow who gave the last of her money to the church, two copper coins and refers to giving everything to Jesus. That's how he lived his life. The book is a collection of journal entries from his CaringBridge online journal and consist of theology , narratives of his cancer journey and inspirational quotes. After his cancer diagnosis, he traveled to Russia three times

Introduction As a full time college student , full time house husband, father to two dogs and part time music tutor, I am often asked how I have time to write so often and on such a variety of different topics and in so many different styles. While I firmly believe a lot of it is genetics and my "affliction" of Attention Deficit Disorder , there are also things I've learned to help me become a better and a more productive writer. There are numerous ways to improve the craft, to develop ideas and to publish quality and interesting content. I would like to share some of these ideas with you now. Novelist Stephen King On Writing: 10th Anniversary Edition: A Memoir of the Craft Amazon Price: $9.05 List Price: $16.00   Read You cannot be a good writer without being an avid and voracious reader. Reading can help with the formulation of ideas, with grammar, with spelling, with vocabulary, and, most importantly, with the broadening of horizons. Stephen King , the world'

The bear was small and black and looked like a large dog. It was even panting, Gasping, for air. One, or perhaps both, of its lungs was probably crushed. It was crawling over asphalt towards the forest, home, bloody and broken. It had crossed paths with a car. It would not survive. When the officer arrived on the scene, he informed us he would have to “dispatch” of the bear. Dispatch. That word clung to my brain, offending my soul. Dispatch. Like it was a food order. A phone call. A message. A flight plan. I looked at the suffering dog like bear, it’s useless legs, bloody paws, nose and mouth, crawling futilely towards home. It did not cry, but I heard it wheezing, a rattle in its lungs. And then, with a well-placed bullet, it was, dispatched. And the wheezing stopped. Having been dispatched, the young bear looked small and weak. It did not look peaceful. all rights reserved. copyright Justin W. price Jan. 9, 2012 View