God is always orchestrating His master plan. Every twist and turn in life has a purpose, even when it doesn’t make sense at the moment. Like Oz behind the curtain, He is quietly in control, guiding us—even through heartbreak, pain, and loss. Life is far from flawless; in fact, it often feels anything but perfect. But in the midst of chaos, there is always a thread of purpose waiting to be revealed.
Up until 2011, I truly had it all. I was married to my best friend and soulmate, Sean, celebrating twenty beautiful years of love and partnership. Together, we had built a home filled with laughter, joy, and the pitter-patter of four beautiful children. Life was full, and our hearts were full. But I had no idea what the universe—and God—had in store for me. The path ahead was about to change forever.
May 31, 2011—It was the day before school let out, and my children were practically bouncing off the walls in excitement. Everything seemed normal, yet deep down, something felt off. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but even then, I sensed something wasn’t right.
That evening, I had planned to attend a doTerra meeting at a neighbor’s home. As I reached for the door, a strong, inexplicable urge told me to stay. I shrugged it off, thinking, I’ll only be gone ten minutes. Sean arrived home from work, and I greeted him with a warm hug and a smile. We shared a quiet, loving moment that I now treasure as one of our last. I served him leftovers, then prepared to step out. I reminded him to change for our son Kaden’s baseball game that evening, feeling a growing heaviness with each step away from home. My legs felt leaden, my stomach knotted, but I forced myself to walk through the neighbor’s door.
No sooner had I sat down than a voice inside me shouted, “Tracy, go home right now!” Startled, I rose immediately and rushed back. When I arrived home, Sean wasn’t there. Panic began to bubble up inside me as minutes stretched into hours, and darkness settled around my heart. Something was wrong. I knew it, deep in my soul.
Finally, a knock at the door shattered the silence. Two police officers stood there—a detective and a lieutenant. I didn’t understand at first, until the taller officer spoke.
“Are you Mrs. Steven ‘Sean’ Peart?”
“Yes,” I stammered, heart racing.
“There has been an accident,” he said gently.
My heart stopped. I barely whispered, “Is Sean okay?”
“No,” the officer replied, regret heavy in his voice. “I’m so sorry. He was killed tonight.”
I screamed into the empty night, “Nooooo! Please God, NO!” The world collapsed around me. My mind fractured, my heart shattered, and darkness swallowed me whole. The officers offered to call someone for me. Through my tears, I whispered, “Parents… and my best friend.” They made the calls. I collapsed on the porch, sobbing, while my children’s confused faces peered from the windows.
The news spread quickly. Friends and neighbors arrived. I couldn’t shake the sound of screeching tires, breaking glass, or the image of Sean’s face. My children—what about my children? I felt helpless, utterly lost. I wanted to die. I cried out in my heart, “God, where are You?” But all I found was silence.
That night, I could not bring myself to tell my children what had happened. I asked my bishop, Russ, to sit with them and Sean’s mother, Grandma Lucy, to share the heartbreaking truth. Their cries echoed through our home, a sound that will forever haunt me. My world was spinning, my soul aching.
In the days that followed, I struggled to get our affairs in order. We had no savings for this, no plans, only grief and a mountain of responsibilities. The financial strain of running a small business during a recession only compounded my despair. I stared at the walls, numb, feeling as though life itself had been ripped from me.
Then came the moment I had to step out and make funeral arrangements. I felt paralyzed. My friend and neighbor, Greg Cook, joined me at the cemetery. I didn’t ask why he was there, but I was grateful for his comforting presence. As I stepped out of the car, sunlight on my face, I looked to the sky and whispered a desperate prayer: “Please, God… bring him back. I’ll do anything.” Silence.
We visited two cemeteries. The first was full, with prices beyond our reach. At the second, I finally felt a glimmer of peace as I looked up at the sky and the mountains around me. I had found Sean’s final resting place. It was both sorrowful and comforting. Then Greg surprised me.
“I want to buy Sean’s grave,” he said.
I was speechless. “You can’t do that—it’s too expensive!”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Sean saved me from a plumbing nightmare months ago. I want to give him this final gift—honoring him, you, and your family.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I hugged him. That grave became my refuge, my place of prayer, meditation, and healing. There, I lay all my burdens at God’s feet, finding strength to face another day. I’ve learned that God never leaves us. In our darkest moments, hope can still be found.
The first holidays without Sean were unbearable. I had no desire to celebrate, no joy in putting up decorations. My youngest said, “Mom, Daddy would want us to celebrate. He’s with Jesus.” Those words shattered me, yet opened my eyes to hope in the midst of grief. Life’s challenges reveal the truth of our hearts and the courage within us.
We created The Sean Peart Foundation in his memory—paying it forward to children, single moms, and widows through the Love Ripple Project. I’ve learned that life is defined not by what we get, but by what we give. By embracing our moments of grief, love, and joy, we build a legacy that matters.
One day, you wake up, and life feels right. Your heart is calm, your soul light, your mind clear. You are at peace with where you’ve been, what you’ve endured, and where you are headed. Through heartbreak, sorrow, and love, I’ve found gratitude, clarity, and an unwavering connection to God’s plan.
To Sean: I see you in the stars and sunsets you paint for me. Your love guides me still, and I will honor your memory by sharing light, love, and hope with the world.
“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond. When defining moments come, you define them—or they define you.” —Kevin Costner
