Timothy Ray Wells II was born in Visalia, California, and resided for more than 24 years in Arizona. He passed away on September 14, 2025, leaving a legacy of love, laughter, and unforgettable memories. Timothy was a compassionate, adventurous, and generous soul. His love of music, especially playing the guitar, brought joy to all who knew him. His playful spirit, mischievous humor, and loyalty to his family defined his life. Timothy was a devoted brother, son, and uncle, always ready to care for those he loved and to brighten the lives of everyone around him.
Timothy is preceded in death by his father, Timothy Ray Wells Sr., and his father’s wife, Tiffany Wells. He is survived by his mother, Spring Lynn Booth; his brother, William Lee Wert, Jr.; his brother, Benjamin Lee Wert; and his sister, Megan Ray Lynn Wells. He is also lovingly remembered by his nieces, Kaydance Shyanne Wert, Brailee Dove Wert, and Amelia Elizabeth Frazier. Megan carries his middle name, a reflection of the bond he shared with his siblings and the enduring love that unites their family. Timothy’s life reminds us of the value of love, courage, and living authentically. He leaves a lasting impression on all who knew him, and his memory will be cherished forever.
Picture Maybe Seen At Some Point
This is the guitar quilt I made for Timmy when he was in the hospital. Every stitch carried love, comfort, and hope—just like his music. Sissy and I also created memorial guitar picks with Timmy’s picture, the gold sunset, and the words “Stay Golden” to share at his celebration of life. Here is a story about Timothy and his guitar, just as I told him when he was little:
Timothy and His Guitar
There once was a little boy named Timothy who carried a guitar almost as big as himself. The strings shimmered like sunlight on water, and whenever he played, it seemed as though the world leaned in closer just to listen.
Timothy wasn’t rich in money or treasures, but he was overflowing with something far greater: love. His songs carried whispers of wisdom, grace, tenderness, and kindness—things the world often forgets but desperately needs.
One day, Timothy walked into a village where the people were quarreling. Neighbors shouted at neighbors, and children were afraid. Timothy sat on a low stone wall, gently cradled his guitar, and began to play.
The melody was soft, like a mother’s lullaby, but strong, like a father’s hand guiding his child. Slowly, the arguments hushed. Faces softened. By the end of his song, some were crying, and others were smiling through their tears. For the first time in a long while, the villagers looked at one another with compassion.
In another town, Timothy found a woman sitting by herself, weary and bent from sorrow. He knelt beside her and played a tune that carried hope like a lantern in the dark. She lifted her head, and though her burdens remained, her heart felt lighter. She whispered, “Thank you, little one,” as though he had given her something priceless.
Everywhere Timothy went—fields, marketplaces, lonely roads, and bustling streets—his music poured out like a gift. He didn’t keep any of it for himself. He gave everything he had to protect, to comfort, and to love.
And though he was only a little boy, those who heard his songs would later say, “I don’t remember the words, but I remember the way I felt. I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt loved.”
In the end, Timothy’s guitar was not just an instrument—it was a doorway. Through it, he shared the heart God had given him: one of unshakable kindness and boundless grace.
And so, the world became gentler because Timothy walked through it with his guitar.
By: Timmy’s momma, Spring Lynn Booth
PS: I wrote this as I told him stories with him as the main character when he was little, just like we used to do together.
Picture Maybe Seen At Some Point
This is the guitar quilt I made for Timmy when he was in the hospital. Every stitch carried love, comfort, and hope—just like his music. Sissy and I also created memorial guitar picks with Timmy’s picture, the gold sunset, and the words “Stay Golden” to share at his celebration of life. Here is a story about Timothy and his guitar, just as I told him when he was little:
Timothy and His Guitar
There once was a little boy named Timothy who carried a guitar almost as big as himself. The strings shimmered like sunlight on water, and whenever he played, it seemed as though the world leaned in closer just to listen.
Timothy wasn’t rich in money or treasures, but he was overflowing with something far greater: love. His songs carried whispers of wisdom, grace, tenderness, and kindness—things the world often forgets but desperately needs.
One day, Timothy walked into a village where the people were quarreling. Neighbors shouted at neighbors, and children were afraid. Timothy sat on a low stone wall, gently cradled his guitar, and began to play.
The melody was soft, like a mother’s lullaby, but strong, like a father’s hand guiding his child. Slowly, the arguments hushed. Faces softened. By the end of his song, some were crying, and others were smiling through their tears. For the first time in a long while, the villagers looked at one another with compassion.
In another town, Timothy found a woman sitting by herself, weary and bent from sorrow. He knelt beside her and played a tune that carried hope like a lantern in the dark. She lifted her head, and though her burdens remained, her heart felt lighter. She whispered, “Thank you, little one,” as though he had given her something priceless.
Everywhere Timothy went—fields, marketplaces, lonely roads, and bustling streets—his music poured out like a gift. He didn’t keep any of it for himself. He gave everything he had to protect, to comfort, and to love.
And though he was only a little boy, those who heard his songs would later say, “I don’t remember the words, but I remember the way I felt. I felt safe. I felt seen. I felt loved.”
In the end, Timothy’s guitar was not just an instrument—it was a doorway. Through it, he shared the heart God had given him: one of unshakable kindness and boundless grace.
And so, the world became gentler because Timothy walked through it with his guitar.
By: Timmy’s momma, Spring Lynn Booth
PS: I wrote this as I told him stories with him as the main character when he was little, just like we used to do together.