A Little Girl Asks Michael Jordan About God – His Response Brings Her To Tears!
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A Little Girl Asks Michael Jordan About God
Some questions are too big for a child to carry alone. For 9-year-old Sarah Thompson, that question had lived in her heart since the rainy November night when her father didn’t come home. She kept it folded in her pocket, rewritten countless times, waiting for the right moment to ask. Basketball had always been her family’s way of talking to God. Her father taught her that every perfect shot was like a prayer being answered, that faith could be found in the arc of a jump shot. Now, at Michael Jordan’s Youth Basketball Camp, Sarah would finally have her chance to ask the greatest player of all time the one question that mattered most—not about championships or famous shots, but about faith, loss, and why God sometimes calls time out on the people we love most.
Sarah Thompson’s hands trembled as she stared at the golden envelope on her kitchen table. The morning sunlight streaming through their small apartment window made the official NBA logo sparkle. She had found it mixed in with the usual stack of bills her mom hadn’t had time to open yet.
“Mom!” Sarah called out, her voice bouncing off the worn walls of their Chicago apartment. “Mom, come quick!”
Katie Thompson hurried from the bathroom, still fastening her nurse’s badge to her scrubs. Dark circles under her eyes showed she’d worked another night shift, but her face brightened at her daughter’s excitement.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“Look!” Sarah held up the envelope.
It was from the NBA. Her mom’s eyebrows rose as she took the envelope, carefully opening it with fingers that had changed countless bandages and held countless hands at the hospital.
“Dear Miss Sarah Thompson,” her mom read aloud, her voice getting stronger with each word. “Congratulations! You have been selected as one of 50 young basketball enthusiasts to attend the Michael Jordan Youth Basketball Camp.”
Sarah couldn’t hold still. She had entered the contest three months ago, writing an essay about why basketball mattered to her. She’d worked on it for weeks, erasing and rewriting until the paper was almost see-through in spots.
“The camp will take place next month at the United Center,” her mom continued reading, relief washing over her face at the words “no cost required.”
Sarah wrapped her arms around her mom’s waist, breathing in the familiar scent of hospital soap and coffee. “Can I go, Mom? Please?”
Katie knelt down, meeting her daughter’s eager brown eyes—eyes so much like her father’s that it sometimes made her catch her breath. “Of course you can go, baby. Your dad would be so proud.”
At the mention of her father, Sarah’s excitement softened into something deeper. She glanced at the framed photo on their wall—her dad in his Sunday suit, holding a basketball and grinning at the camera. It was taken just six months before the accident.
Later that evening, after her mom left for her second job at the convenience store, Sarah sat cross-legged on her bed. She pulled out her special notebook, the one with the basketball stickers on the cover, and began to write.
“Dear Dad, you won’t believe what happened today. Remember how you always said miracles come in unexpected packages? Well, I got picked for Michael Jordan’s basketball camp! I know you’re watching from Heaven, probably doing that happy dance that used to make me laugh so hard. Mom’s working double shifts again. I pretend not to notice when she counts pennies at the grocery store, but I do. I wish you were here to help her, to help us both.”
The other kids at school didn’t understand why she spent so much time at the court behind the church. They didn’t know that’s where her dad taught her her first layup. They didn’t know how close she felt to him when she was playing.
Sarah paused, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. The basketball court behind First Methodist Church had become her sanctuary after school while waiting for her mom to finish her hospital shift. She’d practice the drills her dad had taught her. Sometimes, if she concentrated hard enough, she could almost hear his voice: “Follow through on your shot, Sarah Bear. Trust your hands. Trust yourself.”
The next morning, Sarah woke up early and headed to the court. The spring air was crisp, and dew dampened her sneakers as she crossed the grass. She pulled out her treasured basketball, a gift from her dad on her 8th birthday, and began her usual routine: dribble, crossover, shoot. With each bounce of the ball, she imagined herself at the camp. Would Michael Jordan really be there? Would he show them his famous fadeaway jump shot?
Suddenly, Sarah stopped mid-dribble, holding the ball close to her chest. There was something else, something more important than basketball moves that she needed to ask him—the same question that had been burning in her heart since that rainy November night when the police officers had shown up at their door. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She’d been working on the question for weeks, writing and rewriting it, trying to get it just right. Some might think it was silly to prepare a question so far in advance, but Sarah knew this might be her only chance to ask someone who might actually have an answer.
The morning bell at the church rang out, startling her. She needed to hurry if she was going to make it to school on time. As she gathered her things, Father Mike stepped out of the church.
“Early morning practice again, Sarah?” he called out with a warm smile.
She nodded, tucking her ball under her arm. Father Mike had been kind to her family after her dad’s passing, always leaving the court’s lights on until her mom could pick her up.
“I got picked for Michael Jordan’s camp,” she told him, unable to keep the news to herself.
“Did you now?” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Your father always said you had angel wings on the court. Looks like he was right.”
Sarah felt warmth spread through her chest at his words. As she walked to school, she thought about angels and basketball and her dad. Maybe they weren’t as different as some people might think.
In class that day, Sarah could hardly focus. During math, she found herself doodling basketball hoops in the margins of her notebook. In science, she calculated how many days until the camp—exactly 23. At lunch, she sat in her usual spot under the big oak tree, watching other kids play Four Square and trading Pokémon cards.
Marcus, a boy from her class who’d recently lost his mom to cancer, walked by with his lunch tray. Sarah recognized the look in his eyes—the one that said he was trying to act normal when nothing felt normal anymore. She almost called out to him but stopped herself. What would she say? “Hey, I know how you feel because my dad’s gone too.” Instead, she opened her notebook and added another line to her letter: “Dad, sometimes I wonder if you can see all of us from Heaven. Can you see Mom working so hard? Can you see me practicing? Can you see all the other kids who miss someone like I miss you?”
The rest of the school day crawled by until finally, Sarah found herself back home. Her mom wouldn’t be back until late, so she heated up leftover mac and cheese and settled in front of the TV. ESPN was showing highlights from yesterday’s Bulls game. As she watched the players move across the screen, Sarah clutched her golden envelope. In 23 days, she’d be learning from the greatest basketball player ever. But more importantly, she might finally get an answer to the question that kept her awake at night—the one she’d written and rewritten on that carefully folded piece of paper in her pocket. She just hoped she’d be brave enough to ask it when the time came.
That night, as Sarah got ready for bed, she took one last look at her dad’s photo. “I won’t let you down,” she whispered, then added even more quietly, “Please don’t let me down either.” She fell asleep with the golden envelope on her nightstand, dreaming of basketball courts that reached all the way to heaven, where angels wore Air Jordans and every question had an answer.
The United Center loomed before Sarah like a giant spaceship, its glass windows reflecting the early morning sun. She clutched her mom’s hand tighter as they approached the entrance, where dozens of excited kids and their parents were already gathering.
“You’ve got your lunch?” her mom asked, straightening Sarah’s Bulls t-shirt for the third time. “Your water bottle?”
“Mom,” Sarah interrupted with a small smile, “I’ve got everything. Even my special question.” She patted the pocket of her shorts, where the carefully folded paper sat like a secret treasure.
A tall woman in a Bulls staff jacket approached them, clipboard in hand. “Welcome to the Michael Jordan Youth Basketball Camp! I’m Coach Lisa, and you must be Sarah Thompson.”
Sarah said quietly, showing her golden envelope. Coach Lisa’s eyes lit up as she checked her list. “Ah yes, Sarah! Your essay was beautiful—the one about finding God in the perfect arc of a jump shot, right?”
Sarah nodded, surprised anyone remembered. She’d poured her heart into that essay, writing about the spiritual lessons her dad had taught her through basketball—how dribbling required faith in your hands, how shooting needed trust in yourself, and how teamwork showed that nobody was ever really alone.
“Oh, I can’t stay,” Sarah’s mom cut in, checking her watch. “Hospital shift starts in 30 minutes.” She knelt down and pulled Sarah into a tight hug. “You’re going to do great, baby. Just be yourself.”
Sarah watched her mom hurry toward the bus stop, fighting the familiar ache in her chest. When she turned back, she noticed Marcus from school standing nearby, wearing the same red jersey. Their eyes met, and this time Sarah didn’t look away.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey,” he replied, fidgeting with his jersey. “I didn’t know you got in too.”
Before Sarah could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air. The kids hurried to their assigned groups, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Sarah found herself in line next to Marcus, both of them trying not to stare at the six NBA championship banners hanging from the rafters.
Coach Lisa gathered Group C in a circle. “Today we’re focusing on fundamentals, but first let’s hear what brought each of you to basketball.”
Who wants to start? Several kids shared stories about watching Bulls games with their families or dreaming of playing in the NBA. When it was Marcus’s turn, he spoke so quietly Sarah could barely hear him.
“My mom used to be a basketball coach,” he said. “She taught PE at Lincoln Elementary before she got sick.”
The other kids shifted uncomfortably, but Sarah felt a surge of connection. She knew exactly how much courage it took to talk about the parent who wasn’t there anymore.
“Basketball helps me remember her,” Marcus continued, his voice growing slightly stronger. “Like when I’m dribbling, I can still hear her saying, ‘Keep your head up, Marcus. You can’t see where you’re going if you’re looking down.’”
Sarah’s hand shot up before she could stop herself. “My dad used to say something like that too. He said basketball was like a conversation with Heaven. You have to keep your head up to hear the response.”
A few kids giggled, but Marcus gave her a small smile that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she’d found someone who understood.
The morning flew by in a blur of drills and demonstrations. They practiced layups, free throws, and passing exercises. Sarah threw herself into each activity, remembering how her dad had taught her the same moves on their little court behind the church. During a water break, she pulled out her journal.
“Dear Dad, the camp is amazing! The court is so big and shiny, and there are pictures of Michael Jordan everywhere. Remember how you used to tell me that his famous Flu Game showed that strength isn’t just about muscles? I get that now. I met someone else who lost a parent. His name is Marcus, and his mom was a basketball coach. When he talks about her, his voice gets quiet, like mine does when I talk about you. Is that something that ever goes away?”
A shadow fell across her page. She looked up to find Marcus standing there, holding out a granola bar. “Want to trade?” he asked. “My dad packed peanut butter, but I’m allergic.”
Sarah reached into her lunch bag for her chocolate chip one. As they exchanged snacks, she noticed he had a small silver cross hanging from his neck, similar to the one her dad used to wear. “Does it help?” she found herself asking. “The necklace, I mean. Does it make you feel closer to her?”
Marcus touched the cross thoughtfully. “Sometimes. Mom always said that faith was like a basketball game. You have to trust your teammates even when you can’t see them.”
Before Sarah could respond, Coach Lisa called them back to practice. This time they were learning the proper form for a jump shot. Sarah closed her eyes briefly, remembering her dad’s voice: “It’s all about faith, Sarah Bear. Faith in your shot. Faith in yourself. Faith in something bigger than both.”
As she moved through the drill, Sarah felt a familiar presence, as if her dad was standing right behind her, guiding her elbow to the perfect angle. Her first shot swished through the net without touching the rim.
“Beautiful form, Sarah!” Coach Lisa called out. “That’s the kind of shot that would make Michael Jordan proud!”
At the mention of Jordan’s name, Sarah felt the folded paper in her pocket grow heavier. Tomorrow, the legend himself would be here. The thought made her stomach flutter with nervous excitement.
By the end of the day, Sarah’s muscles ached, but her heart felt fuller than it had in months. As she waited for her mom outside, Marcus sat down beside her on the concrete steps. “Hey,” he said, pulling out a worn basketball card. “Look what my dad found in my mom’s old stuff.” It was a Michael Jordan rookie card, the edges slightly frayed but the image still clear—Jordan soaring through the air, defying gravity and doubt all at once.
“Do you think…” Marcus hesitated. “Do you think he knows what it’s like to play basketball with a hole in your heart?”
Sarah reached into her pocket and touched her folded question. “I hope so,” she whispered. “I really hope so.”
The sound of her mom’s footsteps approaching made them both look up. As Sarah gathered her things, Marcus called out, “See you tomorrow!”
She nodded, feeling a small spark of hope. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with big questions. Maybe that’s why God had brought them both here—not just to learn basketball, but to learn that some burdens are lighter when shared.
That night, as Sarah got ready for bed, she added one more line to her journal: “Dad, I think I found someone else who speaks our language—the one where basketball and faith and love are all the same thing. Is that why you always said the court was holy ground?”
She placed the journal on her nightstand next to the golden envelope and her dad’s photo. Tomorrow, Michael Jordan would walk into the United Center. Tomorrow, she might find the courage to ask her question. But tonight, she had something almost as precious: the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in her search for answers.
As she drifted off to sleep, Sarah could have sworn she heard the soft swish of a basketball net, like angels playing a midnight game of their own.
Sarah woke before her alarm, her heart already racing with anticipation. Today was different. Today, the counselors would announce which kids would get to ask Michael Jordan questions during tomorrow’s special session. She found her mom in the kitchen, already in her scrubs, preparing breakfast.
“Mom, what if I’m not picked to ask a question?” Sarah blurted out, the worry she’d been holding inside finally spilling over.
Katie Thompson set down the spatula and turned to face her daughter. “Then you’ll still have learned something amazing at this camp,” she said. But Sarah, she paused, touching the folded paper peeking out of Sarah’s pocket. “Sometimes the most important questions find their way to being asked.”
At the United Center, the morning started with team drills. Sarah and Marcus were paired together, practicing bounce passes. As they worked, Sarah noticed Marcus seemed different today—more focused, almost fierce.
“Everything okay?” she asked between passes.
Marcus caught the ball and held it, his fingers tracing the seams. “Dad found more of Mom’s old basketball stuff last night. Her playbook from when she coached. She had all these notes in the margins about how basketball builds character.” He passed the ball back with extra force. “I want to make her proud.”
Sarah understood completely. Every time she stepped on the court, she felt the weight of her father’s legacy—his lessons about faith and perseverance wrapped up in every dribble and shot.
Coach Lisa gathered them for a special drill, one that made Sarah’s stomach tighten with nervous energy. Each player would have to make a free throw while the entire group watched. If they missed, they had to share something personal about why they loved basketball.
One by one, kids stepped up to the line. Some made their shots, celebrating with high fives. Others missed, sharing stories about favorite games or players. When it was Marcus’s turn, he missed just slightly, the ball rolling around the rim before falling away.
He took a deep breath. “I love basketball because it’s the last thing my mom taught me. She said that even when life isn’t fair, the basketball court always is—10 feet high, 15 feet to the free throw line. Some things don’t change.”
The gym was quiet for a moment, every kid somehow understanding the weight of his words. Sarah gave him a small nod as he walked back to the group. Then it was her turn.
Sarah stepped to the line, the ball feeling both familiar and strange in her hands. She bounced it three times, just like her dad had taught her. “Remember, Sarah Bear,” his voice echoed in her memory. “Free throws are about faith—faith in your practice, faith in your form, faith in the ball.”
The ball left her hands, everything seeming to move in slow motion as it arced through the air. Sarah could almost see her dad’s hands guiding the shot, feel his presence in the perfect backspin. The ball dropped through the net with a satisfying swish.
“Beautiful shot, Sarah!” Coach Lisa called out. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Your essay mentioned something about finding God in a perfect shot. I think I just saw what you meant.”
During lunch break, Sarah and Marcus sat in their usual spot under the bleachers, sharing snacks and stories. “Do you think,” Marcus asked carefully, “that they can see us—your dad and my mom—when we’re playing?”
Sarah pulled out her journal, showing him the basketball stickers on the cover. “I write to my dad every day. Sometimes about basketball, sometimes about other stuff—big stuff.” She touched the folded question in her pocket. “Do you ever have questions you wish you could ask your mom?”
Marcus nodded, pulling out his mom’s old playbook. “She wrote this note here. See? ‘Basketball is life’s greatest teacher—about teamwork, about fairness, about faith.’ But I still don’t understand why she had to leave.”
Before Sarah could respond, Coach Lisa’s whistle cut through the air. Everyone gathered at center court, where the head coach held a clipboard. “You know tomorrow is our special session with Michael Jordan himself,” he announced. “We’ve selected 10 students who will have the opportunity to ask him questions.”
Sarah’s heart pounded so hard she could barely hear the names being called. Marcus was chosen seventh. She squeezed his hand in congratulation. The list continued, and Sarah’s hope began to fade. Finally, the coach said, “Our 10th spot goes to Sarah Thompson.”
The world seemed to stop for a moment. She’d been chosen! Tomorrow, she would have her chance to ask the question that had been burning in her heart since that rainy November night.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of drills and scrimmages. Sarah played with renewed energy, each movement feeling like a prayer of gratitude. During the final water break, Coach Lisa pulled her aside. “Your father was right, you know,” she said softly.
Sarah looked up, surprised. “About what?”
“About basketball being more than just a game,” Coach Lisa said. “I read it in your essay—how he taught you that every bounce of the ball is like a heartbeat, every pass an act of trust, every shot a leap of faith.”
Coach Lisa smiled. “Tomorrow, when you ask your question, remember that sometimes the most important answers don’t come in words.”
That evening, as Sarah waited for her mom outside, Marcus showed her his question for tomorrow. It was about basketball strategy, about Jordan’s famous Flu Game and pushing through adversity. “What’s your question going to be?” he asked.
Sarah touched the folded paper in her pocket but didn’t take it out. “Something my dad and I used to talk about,” she said quietly. “Something about faith and basketball and why things happen the way they do.”
Marcus seemed to understand. He opened his mom’s playbook to a dog-eared page where she’d written, “The game teaches us that even when we don’t understand the play, we have to trust in the team, in the process, in something bigger than ourselves.”
Sarah added a final entry to her journal before bed: “Dear Dad, tomorrow I get to ask my question—the one I’ve been too scared to ask anyone else. The question that keeps me awake at night, that echoes in every empty room of our apartment, that bounces around my heart like a ball that can’t find its way to the net. I think I understand now why you always said basketball was like a conversation with God. It’s not about winning or losing; it’s about the faith it takes to take the shot even when you’re not sure it’ll go in. I hope you’ll be watching tomorrow, Dad. I hope you’ll be proud no matter what the answer is. And I hope, somehow, through Michael Jordan’s words, I’ll hear your voice again.”
Sarah tucked her journal away and looked at her dad’s photo. The folded question seemed to burn in her pocket, but for the first time since she’d written it, she felt ready to ask it.
As she drifted off to sleep, Sarah imagined tomorrow’s moment—standing before Michael Jordan, asking her question, finally giving voice to the thoughts that had lived in her heart for so long. Instead of fear, she felt something else: a quiet certainty that whatever the answer might be, she was exactly where she needed to be.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Sarah tossed and turned, her mind replaying memories like an old highlight reel. She remembered the last game she’d watched with her dad, how he’d explained why Jordan was more than just a basketball player. “See how he lifts his teammates up?” her dad had said, pointing to the TV screen. “That’s what real greatness is about, Sarah Bear—not just being the best yourself, but helping others find their best too.”
At 2 a.m., Sarah gave up on sleep. She padded to the kitchen in her Bulls pajamas, careful not to wake her mom. The moonlight streaming through their window cast long shadows on the linoleum floor. She pulled out her journal and began to write.
“Dear Dad, it’s the middle of the night, and I can’t sleep. Tomorrow’s the big day. Remember how you used to say that the night before a big game was when champions were made? That the quiet hours were when you had to face your biggest opponent—your own doubts? I keep reading my question over and over. Is it the right one? Will Michael Jordan think it’s silly? Will he understand what I’m really asking?”
The sound of soft footsteps made her look up. Her mom stood in the doorway, still in her nurse’s scrubs from the late shift. “Can’t sleep either?” Katie asked, sliding into the chair next to Sarah. She noticed the journal open on the table. “Writing to your dad?”
Sarah nodded, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Mom, what if I’m not ready for the answer?”
Katie wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You know what your dad would say about that? That sometimes the questions are more important than the answers.”
“That and…” Katie smiled softly, “that God doesn’t give us questions we’re not ready to ask.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the refrigerator’s quiet hum like a lullaby. Sarah traced the NBA logo on her journal with her finger. “Mom,” she whispered, “do you ever get mad at God for taking Dad?”
Katie’s breath caught, and Sarah felt her mom’s arm tighten around her. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But then I look at you—how you’ve taken everything he taught you about basketball and faith and turned it into something beautiful. And I remember that love doesn’t end; it just changes form. Like a jump shot turning into a rebound.”
Sarah leaned into her mom’s embrace, letting the tears fall freely now. “I miss him so much.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
The next morning came too quickly and not quickly enough. Sarah’s stomach was in knots as she got ready, carefully folding her question and placing it in her pocket one last time. Her mom had left a note on the kitchen table: “Remember what Dad always said: God speaks in mysterious ways, sometimes even through basketball. Love you, my brave girl.”
At the United Center, everything felt different. The air seemed charged with electricity. The other kids who’d been chosen to ask questions huddled in small groups, practicing their words under their breath. Marcus found her by the water fountain, clutching his mom’s playbook like a shield.
“I rewrote my question five times last night,” he confessed.
“Me too,” Sarah said, though she hadn’t changed a word of hers. Some questions, she was learning, were written on your heart long before they made it to paper.
Coach Lisa gathered The Chosen 10 for a special meeting. “Today isn’t just about basketball,” she told them. “It’s about connecting with someone who’s faced challenges, who’s learned life’s biggest lessons through this game. Your questions matter. They matter because they come from your hearts.”
As she spoke, Sarah’s hand found its way to her pocket, feeling the worn edges of her folded paper. She thought about all the nights she’d lain awake wrestling with the words, trying to capture the enormity of what she needed to know in one simple question.
During their final practice session before Jordan’s arrival, Sarah moved through the drills with a strange sense of calm. Each dribble, each pass, each shot felt like a prayer—not asking for anything, just expressing gratitude for being here, for having had a dad who taught her that basketball could be holy.
Coach Lisa pulled her aside during a water break. “Your shots are different today,” she observed.
Sarah nodded. “Dad used to say that the best shots come when you stop thinking and just trust.”
“Smart man, your dad,” Coach Lisa’s eyes were kind. “You know, Sarah, sometimes the questions we are most scared to ask are the ones we most need to voice.”
As the afternoon light began to fade, the kids were sent home early to rest before tomorrow’s big event. Sarah lingered on the court, watching the long shadows stretch across the floor. She took out her basketball—the one her dad had given her—and stood at the free throw line. One bounce, two bounces, three. She closed her eyes and shot, not needing to look to know it would go in. The soft swish brought a smile to her face.
“Dear Dad, tomorrow I’m going to ask Michael Jordan the question I’ve been too scared to ask anyone else—the question that keeps me awake at night, that echoes in every empty room of our apartment, that bounces around my heart like a ball that can’t find its way to the net. I think I understand now why you always said basketball was like a conversation with God. It’s not about winning or losing; it’s about the faith it takes to take the shot even when you’re not sure it’ll go in. I hope you’ll be watching tomorrow, Dad. I hope you’ll be proud no matter what the answer is. And I hope, somehow, through Michael Jordan’s words, I’ll hear your voice again.”
Sarah tucked her journal away and looked up at the championship banners hanging from the rafters. Tomorrow, Michael Jordan would walk through those doors. Tomorrow, she would finally ask her question. But tonight, in the quiet of the empty court, she felt her dad’s presence stronger than ever. It was in the scuff marks on the floor, the echo of bouncing balls, the perfect arc of her last shot still hanging in her mind’s eye.
As she walked home in the gathering dusk, Sarah felt the weight of her question in her pocket, but now it felt less like a burden and more like a key to something she wasn’t sure yet. But for the first time since that rainy November night, she felt ready to find out.
The United Center was different that morning. Sarah felt it the moment she walked through the doors. The usual echoes of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers were replaced by an electric silence. Everyone spoke in whispers as if they were in church.
“He’s really coming,” Marcus whispered, appearing beside her. “They’re setting up his chair right now.”
Sarah looked where he pointed. In the center of the court stood a single chair, positioned so that the morning light streaming through the high windows fell directly on it. It looked like a throne.
Coach Lisa gathered all 50 kids, arranging them in a semicircle on the court. The 10 question-askers, including Sarah and Marcus, were placed in the front row. Sarah’s hand kept drifting to her pocket, feeling the folded paper that held her question.
“Remember,” Coach Lisa said, her voice gentle but firm. “Michael Jordan is here because he believes in what basketball can teach us about life, about ourselves, about the bigger picture.”
The double doors swung open, and everything seemed to stop. Sarah heard someone gasp. She might have gasped herself because there he was—Michael Jordan—walking toward them with that familiar grace that made him seem like he was floating rather than walking. He wore a simple black shirt and jeans, but something about him made the ordinary clothes look regal.
“Good morning, future champions,” he said, his voice filling the gym.
“Good morning, Mr. Jordan!” 50 voices responded in unison.
He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Please, call me Michael. We’re all family here—the basketball family.”
As he sat down, Sarah noticed something that wasn’t visible in any of her posters or basketball cards. Around his neck, partially hidden by his shirt collar, was a thin gold chain with what looked like a cross.
Jordan began by telling them about his first basketball—a gift from his father. Sarah’s breath caught. She glanced at Marcus, who was clutching his mom’s playbook tightly.
“My father taught me that basketball isn’t just about putting a ball through a hoop,” Jordan continued. “It’s about faith—faith in yourself, faith in your teammates, faith in something bigger than the game.”
Sarah’s hand trembled as she touched her question again. It was as if Jordan was speaking directly to her, echoing her dad’s words from so long ago. He demonstrated his famous fadeaway jump shot, explaining how it required trust in your practice, in your body, in the laws of physics that would carry the ball to its destination.
Then he began taking questions. The first few were what you might expect: How many hours did you practice? What was your favorite championship? How did you jump so high? Jordan answered each one thoughtfully, turning simple basketball questions into life lessons.
When a shy girl asked about dealing with pressure, he spoke about finding peace in the moment between jumping and shooting. Marcus’s turn came. His voice shook slightly as he asked about the flu game—about pushing through when everything seems impossible.
Jordan’s answer made Sarah’s heart ache. “Sometimes,” he said, “the greatest strength isn’t in pushing through alone; it’s in letting others help carry you. That game, I wasn’t just playing for myself. I was playing for my team, for the fans, for everyone who’s ever faced something that seemed too big to handle.”
Marcus nodded, his eyes bright with tears he was trying not to shed. Sarah saw him touch his mom’s necklace, more questions followed, and with each answer, Jordan wove together basketball and life, sports and spirit, the physical and the sacred.
Sarah began to understand why her father had called him more than just a player. Then suddenly, Coach Lisa was calling her name. Sarah stood, her legs feeling like jelly. The folded paper in her pocket seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. The gym was completely silent now, waiting.
She took one step forward, then another. Jordan’s eyes met hers—kind and patient. In that moment, Sarah saw something in them she recognized: a shadow of loss, a glimmer of faith—the same look she sometimes caught in her own reflection.
Her hand reached for the question she’d carried for so long, but before she could pull it out, a memory flashed through her mind—her dad teaching her to shoot free throws in the rain. “Why do we practice in bad weather, Dad?” she’d asked.
“Because, Sarah Bear,” he’d replied, “sometimes the most important shots come when conditions aren’t perfect. Sometimes you have to trust even
when you can’t see clearly.”
Standing before Michael Jordan now, Sarah felt something shift inside her. The question in her pocket was still there, but maybe, just maybe, the answer had been with her all along—in every dribble, every shot, every moment she’d felt her dad’s presence on the court.
She opened her mouth to speak, her heart pounding like a basketball against hardwood, ready to ask the question that had lived in her heart since that rainy November night—the question about faith and loss, about God’s plan and basketball angels, about why some games end before we’re ready to leave the court.
The entire gym held its breath, waiting for her words. Sarah’s fingers brushed against the folded paper in her pocket one last time, but she didn’t take it out. Instead, she looked directly at Michael Jordan, her voice barely above a whisper but clear enough to reach every corner of the silent gym.
“Michael, do you believe in God? And if you do, why does He take away the people we love most?”
The air seemed to freeze. Someone gasped softly from the corner of her eye. Sarah saw Coach Lisa press a hand to her heart, and Marcus’s mom’s playbook slipped from his hands, landing on the court with a quiet thud. But Sarah wasn’t done. The words she’d held inside for so long came rushing out like a fast break that couldn’t be stopped.
“My dad taught me that basketball was a way to talk to God, that every perfect shot was like a prayer being answered. He said Michael Jordan played like he had angels helping him, and that’s why he could fly. But last November, during the biggest storm of the year, my dad was driving home from work, and he… he never made it. He was supposed to teach me his fadeaway shot the next day.”
The memory of that night crashed over her like a wave—the police at the door, the rain beating against the windows, her mom’s broken cry, the basketball in the driveway waiting for a game that would never come.
“I keep playing because it makes me feel close to him, because on the court, sometimes I can almost hear his voice telling me to follow through, to trust my shot, to keep my head up. But then I remember he’s gone, and I don’t understand. If God loves us, if basketball really is a conversation with Heaven like my dad said, then why didn’t God answer our prayers? Why did He take my dad away?”
Sarah’s voice cracked on the last word. The folded paper in her pocket, the one she’d rewritten so many times, suddenly felt unnecessary. This was the real question—the one that lived in her heart, that echoed in every empty room of their apartment, that bounced around in her mind during lonely practices.
The silence in the gym was absolute. Sarah could hear her own heartbeat racing like a fast break drill. She realized she was gripping her dad’s old Bulls cap, the one she’d brought for good luck, so tightly that her knuckles were white.
Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw something change in Michael Jordan’s expression. The legendary confidence softened into something else—something raw and real. He touched the gold chain around his neck, the cross catching the morning light.
“I lost my father too,” he said quietly, and Sarah remembered the headlines, the sudden retirement, the return to basketball. “He was my biggest fan, my first coach, my best friend.”
Jordan stood up from his chair and walked toward Sarah, each step echoing in the silent gym. When he reached her, he knelt down so they were at eye level. “I lost him. I went to the court behind my house, played until sunrise, shooting and missing, shooting and missing, asking the same questions you’re asking now: Why him? Why now? Where was God when we needed Him most?”
Sarah nodded, tears falling freely now. She saw Marcus wiping his eyes, saw other kids in the circle touching their own precious reminders—necklaces, wristbands, worn-out sneakers that belonged to someone they’d lost.
“Your father was right about basketball being a conversation with God,” Jordan continued. “But sometimes the answers don’t come in words. They come in moments like this, when the game brings people together who understand each other’s pain. They come in the friends who help us carry our grief, in the memories that keep our loved ones alive, in the courage it takes to keep playing even when our hearts are broken.”
He picked up a basketball from nearby and held it out to Sarah. “Want to show me that fadeaway shot your dad was going to teach you?”
Sarah took the ball, its familiar texture grounding her. She moved to the spot where her dad always practiced fadeaways at their church court. Jordan stood beside her, his presence both legendary and comforting. “Close your eyes,” he said softly. “Feel the shot. Trust it like a prayer.”
Sarah bounced the ball three times, just as her dad had taught her. In her mind, she saw him standing there, heard his voice: “Basketball is faith in motion, Sarah Bear. Even when you can’t see the net, trust that it’s there.”
She jumped, leaned back, and released the ball. The gym was silent except for the sound of the ball spinning through the air. In that moment, suspended between question and answer, between Earth and Heaven, Sarah felt something she hadn’t felt since that rainy November night: a perfect certainty that love, like a well-shot basketball, never really misses its mark.
The ball arced toward the hoop, carrying with it all her grief, all her questions, all her faith. Swish. The sound was soft, almost like a whisper, but it filled the entire gym. Sarah opened her eyes just in time to see the ball drop through the net, not touching the rim—a perfect shot, just like her dad used to make.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Then Michael Jordan’s hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. “See that?” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the silent gym. “That wasn’t just a basketball shot. That was a conversation.”
Sarah felt tears rolling down her cheeks, but these were different from the tears she’d cried since November. These felt like rain after a long drought, washing away months of built-up pain.
“Your father is still teaching you,” Jordan continued, “through every dribble, every pass, every shot—just like my father still teaches me. That’s the thing about love: it doesn’t end at the final buzzer. It finds new ways to reach us.”
Marcus stepped forward, his mom’s playbook clutched to his chest. “Is that why basketball feels like home?” he asked quietly, even when home doesn’t feel like home anymore.
Jordan nodded, looking around at all the kids in the circle. Some were wiping tears, others holding on to their own precious reminders of loved ones lost. “You know what I learned when I lost my father?” Jordan’s voice was soft but strong. “I learned that God doesn’t take people away from us. He gives us ways to keep them close. For me, for us, that way is basketball.”
He walked to where the ball had rolled and picked it up. “Every time we step on this court, we’re surrounded by more than just players and fans. We’re surrounded by every person who ever taught us to love this game—every parent who rebounded for us until their arms ached, every friend who believed in us when we didn’t believe in ourselves.”
Sarah thought about all the times she’d felt her dad’s presence on the court behind the church—how sometimes, in the middle of a perfect play, it felt like he was right there, calling out, “That’s my girl!”
Jordan handed her the ball again. “Your question wasn’t just about God, was it? It was about love—about whether it survives when we can’t see it anymore.”
“Well, look around,” he gestured to all of them. Sarah saw Marcus holding his mom’s playbook like a treasure map to healing. She saw Coach Lisa dabbing her eyes with the corner of her whistle lanyard. She saw 50 kids connected by something deeper than just basketball.
“This,” Jordan gestured to the group, “is your answer. Love doesn’t disappear; it transforms. Like a bounce pass becoming a shot, like a rebound becoming a fast break.”
Your father’s love is still here, still teaching you, still celebrating every basket. He turned to address all the kids. “Sometimes the hardest part of faith isn’t believing in God; it’s believing that love is stronger than loss. That’s what basketball teaches us. Every game has a final buzzer, but what we learn, what we share, what we feel—that lives on in every person we’ve touched.”
Sarah clutched the ball to her chest, feeling its familiar texture. She remembered something her dad used to say: “Basketball is like life, Sarah Bear. It’s not about never missing; it’s about keeping faith in your shot even after you miss.”
“Michael,” she said softly, “my dad used to say you played like you had angels helping you.”
Jordan smiled, touching the cross around his neck. “Maybe I do. Maybe we all do. Every time we play with joy, with love, with faith—that’s when our angels show up. Sometimes wearing Air Jordans, sometimes wearing old Bulls caps like your dad’s.”
Coach Lisa stepped forward, her eyes shining. “Sarah, remember what you wrote in your essay about finding God in the perfect arc of a jump shot?”
Sarah nodded.
“Well, look what just happened. You asked your question, and God answered—not with words, but with that perfect swish. Sometimes faith isn’t about getting the answers we expect; it’s about recognizing the answers we’re given.”
As if on cue, a shaft of sunlight broke through the high windows of the United Center, creating a golden path from the free throw line to the hoop. Sarah thought about all the hours she’d spent on the court behind the church, all the letters she’d written in her journal, all the times she’d felt alone in her grief. But she wasn’t alone. She never had been.
That night, after the most extraordinary day of her life, Sarah sat at her kitchen table with her journal. Her mom worked the night shift, but she’d left a note: “Dad would be so proud of you today. So am I. Love, Mom.”
“Dear Dad,” she wrote, “I asked my question today—the one I’ve been carrying since that rainy night in November. But something funny happened. The answer didn’t come in words; it came in a perfect fadeaway shot, in Michael Jordan’s understanding smile, in the tears of 50 kids who know what it’s like to miss someone so much it hurts to breathe.”
“You were right about basketball being a conversation with God, but it’s more than that. It’s a conversation with you, with everyone who’s ever loved this game, with every person who’s ever felt lost and found their way back through the simple act of believing in something they couldn’t see.”
“I understand now why you said Michael Jordan played like he had angels helping him. We all do, don’t we? Our angels just wear different jerseys. Yours is number 23, just like his. And every time I step on the court, every time I hear the perfect swish of the net, every time I feel that moment of pure faith between releasing the ball and watching it find its home, that’s when I know you’re still coaching me.”
Sarah closed her journal and walked to the window. The moon was full, casting a gentle light on the quiet street. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the familiar sound of a basketball bouncing on concrete. She smiled, touching the Bulls cap her dad had given her. Her tears had dried, replaced by something stronger: a certainty that love, like a well-practiced jump shot, never really misses its mark. It just finds new ways to score.
That night, Sarah dreamed of basketball courts that stretched all the way to heaven, where angels wore Air Jordans and every question found its answer in the perfect arc of a jump shot. But this time, she wasn’t searching anymore. She was home.
Stories like Sarah’s remind us that sometimes the most powerful answers come in the form of a perfect swish. If this story touched your heart, take a moment to share where you’re listening from in the comments below
