Day: June 2, 2026

Once upon a time, in the suburbs of Washington, DC, there was an early childhood program unlike any other. Young families from all around eagerly enrolled their children in this parent cooperative, yes, a co-op! A parent cooperative preschool is a rare and wonderful place where parents step directly into their child’s early education, working side-by-side with a professional teacher.

These schools are typically non-profit and run by the parents themselves. They share the responsibilities of teaching, administration, and even the daily maintenance that keeps a school humming. In return, something beautiful happens: a deep sense of community forms. Parents, teachers, and children grow together. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a voice.

And for us, that model worked. It worked beautifully.

As we built our school, we built a community! Parents who showed up, teachers who believed in the power of play, and board members who kept us steady and forward-moving. Our Mission and Vision Statements weren’t just documents tucked in a binder; they were our guiding light. They shaped our days, our decisions, and our dreams.

Meet Phil!

Phil was a freelance writer married to Bev. Together, they adopted two boys, Ross and Brandon.

Now, you can probably see where this story is headed. Bev worked for the United States Federal Government, so she wasn’t the parent spending time in the boys’ classrooms. Phil was.

And every teacher and I mean every teacher, fell in love with Phil as did many women. 

He wasn’t just kind and attentive to his own children; he was kind and loving with all the children. He had a gift for making every child feel seen and valued. Whenever Phil volunteered in our classrooms, we looked forward to his visits. His presence brought warmth, laughter, and a sense of calm.

Then one day, Bev and Phil shared heartbreaking news: Phil had been diagnosed with cancer.

We were devastated.

But as communities often do in times of need, we came together. And, of course, the first thing we did was bring food. You knew that was coming, right?

We delivered so many meals that Bev and Phil asked us to stop. Instead, Phil’s many cousins chipped in and brought Phil and Bev a freezer. We kept making meals and more meals. It was our small way of saying, “We love you. We are here for you. You are not facing this alone.”

Phil continued to work in the classrooms until one day it just wasn’t possible anymore. His body slowed long before his spirit did. And yet, I wasn’t ready, none of us were, to let the children simply not see Phil anymore. He had become a thread in the fabric of our days. So we did what early childhood educators always do: we adapted.

I asked Phil if he might like to lead chapel on Wednesday mornings. Chapel at our school wasn’t about religion, though some families brought that lens with them, it was about gathering, gentleness, music, and the kind of stories that help children make sense of the world. Phil said yes. Of course he did. He said yes with that quiet smile of his, the one that told you he was already imagining how to make it magical.

So chapel with Phil began.

Every Wednesday, the children tip-toed into the chapel space, a little more solemn, a little more curious. Phil sat on a stool, some days comfortably, some days slowly lowering himself down and waited for them with a guitar across his lap. The teachers would settle on the floor, and the children would squeeze in shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide, faces lifted toward him.

Phil played the softest, sweetest tunes, songs that felt like worn quilts. We told simple stories about kindness, about being brave in ordinary ways, about noticing beauty and naming it out loud. And the children listened, really listened, in that unfiltered, wholehearted way that only three and four-year-olds can. Even the wiggly ones.

Some days he paused between songs, catching his breath. The children waited. They just waited. No one told them to. They simply knew to. That’s the thing about community. It teaches us without lecturing. It shapes us without fanfare.

Week after week, Phil gave the children something that would stay with them long after the details faded. And week after week, the children gave Phil something too, a reason to show up, a reason to keep singing, a reason to remember that he still mattered in the space he loved most.

His illness was never discussed with the children directly. It didn’t need to be. Children understand presence. They understand absence. They understand love most of all.

And when the day finally came when Phil couldn’t come in for chapel anymore, the children felt it. We all did. But because of the weeks we had together, the gentleness he’d sewn into our Wednesdays lingered like candlelight on a windowsill.

There are families who remember the way Phil sang. There are teachers who remember the way he looked at every child as if he already saw the best in them. And there is a community, our community, that was made softer, stronger, and more human because of one parent volunteer who showed up with his whole heart.

Phil and Bev’s church had a separate funeral service for children ages 5 and under, with the pastor talking to them at a level they might understand. 

After Phil died, I commissioned a watercolor painting in his memory. It hung proudly in the school for many years, serving as a reminder of the kindness, generosity, and joy he brought to our community. Today, that painting hangs proudly in Ross’s home, where Phil’s legacy continues to live on.

In 2004, I moved to Charleston, South Carolina. As I unpacked box after box, I came across a faded yellow piece of paper. I gasped when I saw the name written across the top: “Phil Godwin.”

Carefully unfolding it, I discovered a song. To this day, I cannot remember exactly how it came into my possession, but somehow that seems fitting. Phil had a way of leaving gifts behind, small reminders of his warmth, kindness, and generous spirit.

Finding that song brought him rushing back into my heart, as if no time had passed at all.

So, in honor of Phil, I share it with you now. Enjoy.

I will always remember you, Phil.

Where Is Your Sweet Spot?

I’m interested and want to hear from you!

• Who is a “Phil” in your life, someone whose quiet acts of kindness have left a lasting impact on your family or community?

• When someone you care about faces a serious challenge, what meaningful ways have you seen a community come together to offer support?

• How might we create more opportunities for parents, grandparents, and caregivers to build the kind of connections that enrich not only their own children, but entire communities?