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A Tribute to My Friend, Carol

“No crying, unless there’s blood or broken bones.”

That line made me smile as Troy, the son of my dear friend, began his tribute to his mother.

“That’s been our family motto as we’ve raised our four children,” he continued.

“But today is an exception.”
Spoken more as a disclaimer to himself than to the room.

I was grateful for the permission to cry, because I definitely needed to shed a few tears.

Carol’s passing added a new shade of blue to my holiday blues. I’ve lost two dear friends this past week—both unexpectedly.

Although I first knew Carol as a musician when I served at her church years ago, our friendship truly took root when she and her husband, Stan, started going on motorcycle trips with Tom and me. We became biker buddies.

Two trips bonded us forever:
one to Nashville, Tennessee—a trip cut short when we learned my mother had only a few days to live—and the other, the infamous ride home from Ocean City, Maryland.

Four lanes.
Bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Stan, in true adventurous fashion, led us weaving in and out of cars, sometimes between lanes and sometimes on the shoulder. (Technically illegal, I think?! But we reasoned it might be okay on two wheels in traffic like that.)

I brought up the rear on my very loud Yamaha V-Star 950—a 25th anniversary gift I fell in love with the moment the salesman revved the engine in the back of the showroom. Because of those pipes, I was always placed at the end of the line, which suited me just fine.

When we finally pulled off to rest, I declared myself officially a biker chick. Anyone who survived that stretch of traffic had earned their title. I guess all those figure-eight drills for my motorcycle test paid off.

And there was Carol’s little white dog, Emmie, riding in a carrier on the back of the Gipes’ trike—gathering admiration from every biker we passed. She was our mascot.

Carol also played a meaningful part in my music world. She helped hem and prepare several of my Portraits of White dresses for the stage, making sure they were the perfect length according to my shoes. I was so thankful for her willingness to rescue a damsel in dress distress. Her gentle nature had a way of stepping into moments and making things more beautiful.

At the funeral, her children shared stories I had never heard:

• homemade angel food birthday cakes with rainbow confetti and green icing
• laundry-room conversations where Trina found her own way to connect with her sewing mother, who gently released her hope that her daughter would become a seamstress
• and Carol’s classic line after patching up Troy’s boyhood bumps and scrapes:
“What did we learn from this?”

Honestly, that’s not a bad way to live.

And then came the part of her story that gripped all of us.

Thirty-one years ago—almost to the day of her passing—the Gipe family had been in a devastating accident, hit by a drunk driver. Carol suffered severe brain injury and was in a coma for three months. She was never the same after that.

As I listened, I realized how often her family referred to her life in two distinct chapters: “before the accident” and “after the accident.”

I never knew Carol before the accident—so she always seemed entirely herself to me. But hearing their stories felt like watching a film filled with flashbacks that suddenly reveal the fuller picture. It deepened my admiration for both Stan and Carol, and for the life they built in the long, difficult aftermath.

At one point Troy said:

“Imagine someone you know very well—a spouse, a partner, a childhood friend. Think of all the things that make them who they are. And then suddenly, they’re different. Same body, different person. That’s what it feels like.”

I sat there stunned, absorbing the weight of those words.
They lived through things I cannot imagine.
And yet, they remained committed. Faithful. Steady.

By the time we reached the end of the service, I knew what was coming—the moment when her body would be carried from the room. That moment always undoes me. Something about that final motion gathers every past loss into one place.
I held my tissues tightly and let the tears come.

Life isn’t free of bumps and scrapes.
We don’t escape the skinned knees, the detours, or the hard goodbyes.
Oh, how I wish we could.

What did I learn from this?
More than I can put into words.
And for that, I’m grateful.

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For those who might be interested, Carol Gipe’s obituary can be found here.