Skimming the obits, the cynical person in me questions whether half of what is written about how great "so-and-so" was is actually true, but there is something unmistakable and genuine about the praise given to this Mr. Godsey. Perhaps, it was the photographs of him with his family proudly displayed at the viewing that told the story best; pictures so typical of family photo albums - the Disney trips, the visits to the Shore, the holidays - yet so overflowing with joy.

In the blink of an eye, a mistake (one I fear may have been oft-repeated) took that gleeful father and husband away. A driver, unsurprisingly alleged to have booze in his system, rammed the pedestrian Godsey from behind on his early morning return trip from Atlantic City only blocks from the family he loved so dear - his wife, two sons and daughter.

Headlines the next day told an all too familiar tale; another drunk driver, another innocent life lost in the cross hairs.

The small church school where all three children attended and both parents spent time at -- Mr. Godsey as a gym teacher, Mrs. Godsey as a substitute -- was torn apart. In a close-knit school like this, where family values and unashamed faith take precedent over teacher pay and benefits, devastation of this magnitude has a distinct sting. For my mom, a South Dakota girl who passed on a public school career because she was drawn to the small faith-based approach, it was only all too familiar. Nearly eight years ago, senseless tragedy prevented her from properly saying goodbye to her big brother - he was beaten to death by an intruder in his Kansas home.

Like my uncle Roger, a tragic victim of circumstance, I could see Mr. Godsey literally giving the shirt off his back for his wife and his kids.

This meant, among other things, volunteering a couple hours two days a week to teach gym for kindergarten through third graders, his daughter's second-grade class included.

In the casket, alongside construction paper hearts with each of the kids' favorite Bible verses, was Mr. Godsey's red whistle and sweatshirt with the school's logo. I'm not totally sure why, but for some reason that image immediately burned into me as I joined the long line of mourners walking slowly past the casket. I knew instantly that there was more that I could do than just donate to a scholarship fund.

A week later I was introduced as the new gym teacher. Silent ball with the Balzac was the first activity; an old standby.

For these kids, many of them not old enough to fully comprehend the loss - some refused to believe that he had died because they saw his identical twin brother at the funeral - having gym class again was a thrill. I was instantly their hero.

But winning their respect and them liking me were the last things on my mind. I was nervous entering the second grade class for the first time. Nervous because I knew this was the one room where Mr. Godsey was missed the most - his daughter's class. Seeing her smile, a smile with braces her dad was never able to see (she got them only days earlier), reminded me of the joy that can still be found in so much sorrow. For many people in the small school community, my presence brought tears.

Reflecting on it later brought tears to my eyes as I thought about that red whistle, that sweatshirt and the man who wore them so proudly -- a man who understood fully the titles of father, husband and volunteer gym teacher two days a week.