Don C. Richter
July 16, 2014
Michael Dana Prewitt Eulogy
Jim Loder, of blessed memory, maintained that from infancy on, every person yearns for a face that will not go away, a face that gives us a place in the cosmos, that confirms us as a self, and that addresses us by the presence of a loving other (The Transforming Moment, 170). God alone, in the face of Jesus Christ, is that abiding presence (II Cor. 4:6). Yet now and then, by the grace of God, we catch glimpses of that face reflected in the face of others.
The first time I met Michael was the summer of 1980. He was lounging poolside at Harry and Julie Clark’s on Mercer Street (Princeton). My first and lasting memory of Michael was his gracious, life-affirming smile. It was a smile that beamed from ear to ear. A smile that said, “I see you. I’m glad you’re here. I delight in your presence.”
In 1984 Kim Clayton (Richter) and I moved to Hopewell as newlyweds. I was an entering doctoral student at Princeton Seminary; Kim had been called as Associate Pastor of Hopewell Presbyterian Church. Michael, Maureen, and young Joe had become active members of this congregation at the time. Joe’s baptism was a joyful celebration, and part of what made the service memorable was the lovely bulletin insert Michael designed. Crafted with care and elegant fonts, this special insert became a regular feature for subsequent baptisms, including our son Jonathan in 1988.
Michael was a connoisseur of craftsmanship: the symmetrical woodcut print; the wordsmithed story; the perfect golf putt; the hand-carved desk.
In 2005 I moved to Decatur, GA, where Michael was enrolled in a D.Min. program at Columbia Seminary. Michael began staying in my guest room during those two-week intensive courses. Many of my Bruton Street neighbors were retired; they were fond of Michael and looked forward to his visits. Michael especially admired the handyman skills of my next-door neighbor, Frank. You could always count on Frank to have the right tool and technique for any repair job.
One day Michael brought home an espresso pot—the metal kind that screws together in the middle. “I found this in the back of a kitchen cabinet at the seminary,” Michael said. “The handle’s broken, so it’s useless. I wonder if Frank can fix it?”
“Probably,” I nodded. “Take it next door and see.
Michael took the broken coffee pot to Frank. The following day Frank brought back the pot with a refurbished handle. “This is for your friend,” Frank exclaimed. “Now he won’t burn his hand trying to get a cup of coffee!”
Later that day, when I handed Michael the pot, he held it like a treasured vase, turning it slowly as he studied the repair job. “Look at this,” Michael beamed. “This is something. Look how he connected the new handle and reinforced it. This is real craftsmanship for you!” Michael decided to keep the repaired pot and buy a new one for the seminary kitchen. He took the refurbished pot back to Philadelphia to brew his daily cup of coffee.
Michael’s two-week sojourns with me were always a blessing. He was a providential companion when I needed a trusted friend. We took afternoon bike rides together. We made pilgrimages to the international DeKalb Farmers’ Market, where Michael’s chats with Ethiopian staff transported him back to his Peace Corps days. We had spirited conversation over steaming bowls of oatmeal with fresh fruit and nuts. We grilled veggies and salmon—which Michael taught me how to prepare with tandoori or pimentón. We prayed together for encouragement in our ministries, and for the healing of our families.
I will miss Brother Michael’s ministry of presence, and especially his life-affirming smile. But I trust that early last Saturday morning, Michael gazed into the compassionate face of his Lord and Savior. Instantly he recognized Jesus by his warm and welcoming smile. A smile that says, “I see you. I’m glad you’re here. I delight in your presence.”
May it be so for us as well. Thanks be to God. Amen.