Chapter 1: Bob Cratchit and the Power of Prayer
Marley was dead, to begin with.
Jacob Marley had actually been dead for seven years, yet his name still followed Ebenezer Scrooge’s on the iron sign that swung in front of my place of employment—the Scrooge and Marley Counting House. As the long-time clerk to the London money loans powerhouse duo, sometimes it was difficult to remember that Mr. Scrooge was now the sole owner, for the impact that Mr. Marley made on his business partner. Mr. Scrooge had always been serious and dismal, while the elder of the pair had been cold and calculating. To my dismay, Mr. Scrooge adopted these qualities as his own after Mr. Marley’s death.
Perhaps, it was his way of grieving the loss of his mentor and friend, but seven years later, to say that Mr. Scrooge was miserly would be an understatement. He was also impersonable, selfish, and a humbug. My heart went out to him and it pained me to see him hole away in his office day in and day out with not a soul of which he gave kindness or love.
Yet, despite my wife, Emily’s protests, I continued to work for Mr. Scrooge. A part of me wasn’t sure I would be able to find suitable employment elsewhere, while another had somehow determined that Mr. Scrooge needed me—and not just for my exceptional abilities as a clerk. I feared for his soul and wondered if without me to reason with him every now and then, that he would slip further into a state of hatred. For all the times he had been thoughtless and cruel to me over the years, I’m not sure why I even cared anymore, yet I did.
“Dear Lord, we offer our gratitude for one another and the food that we are about to eat. We ask for your blessings to be sent to those in need and especially to Mr. Scrooge, of whom the money to provide for this meal and family would not be.”
Emily huffed, earning a few sideways glances from our children, whose heads had been bowed in prayer as we sat around the table for supper a few days before Christmas.
“Amen,” I finished before calmly and kindly retorting, “As a man of faith, I believe that our Father in Heaven watches over all His children, even ones like Ebenezer Scrooge. We reap what we sow, therefore by giving hope and gratitude out, perhaps the Lord will bestow upon us the blessings we need in return.”
Emily looked slightly chagrined, standing to dish up a plate, while my poor, crippled youngest, Tim, who I truly hoped my faith would bless the most, nodded solemnly at my remark. His illness had progressed rapidly this year and though we didn’t want to voice it, we weren’t sure he would make it to see the spring. I wasn’t sure if prayer and faith alone would be enough to make him well and whole again, and I surely didn’t make enough money to send him to the expensive doctors he needed. The only thing I knew to do was to continue praying that a miracle would happen for my sweet son with a heart of gold.
Little did I know just how powerful prayer could be until that Christmas in 1843, when God proved His ability to heal and bless beyond my comprehension. But I digress. In order to understand the magnitude of my blessings, you must first meet my employer, Ebenezer Scrooge.
