A Little Girl Asks Michael Jordan About God – His Response Brings Her To Tears!
.
.
.
The Fadeaway: Michael Jordan and the Question That Changed Everything
Sarah Thompson gripped the golden envelope, its NBA logo shimmering in the morning light filtering through her apartment window. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reread the words that had changed everything: “Congratulations! You have been selected to attend the Michael Jordan Youth Basketball Camp.”
It was a dream she had only dared to whisper—a chance to meet the greatest basketball player of all time. But beneath her excitement lay something deeper, something heavier. She had carried a question in her heart for months, folding and unfolding it in her pocket, writing and rewriting it in her notebook. It was a question that had no easy answers.
Her father had taught her that basketball was more than a game—it was a conversation with God. Every perfect shot was like a prayer being answered. But one rainy night in November, when her father didn’t come home, Sarah stopped believing in answers. And now, with the greatest basketball player of all time in front of her, she would finally have a chance to ask the only question that mattered.
The United Center loomed ahead, its towering glass windows reflecting the early morning sun. Inside, the energy was electric—fifty young basketball players, all eager to learn, all chasing a dream. But Sarah wasn’t just here to play. She was here for something bigger.
As the day unfolded, Sarah practiced her layups, her jump shots, and her crossovers, each movement a silent tribute to the father who had taught her the game. She met Marcus, a boy who had lost his mother to cancer, and they formed an unspoken bond—two kids searching for something beyond the hardwood court.
Then came the announcement: ten students would be chosen to ask Michael Jordan a question. Sarah held her breath as names were called. When hers was finally spoken, she felt the weight of her folded question press against her thigh. Tomorrow, she would stand before Michael Jordan. Tomorrow, she would ask.
The next morning, the United Center felt different. The usual echoes of bouncing balls were replaced by hushed whispers. And then, he walked in.
Michael Jordan.
He was taller in person, more imposing, yet somehow softer than Sarah had imagined. His presence filled the gym, and when he smiled, it felt like the walls of the massive arena leaned in just to listen.
He spoke of his father, of lessons learned beyond the game, of faith and perseverance. One by one, students asked their questions—about championships, about practice, about pushing through pain. Then it was Sarah’s turn.
She stood, her fingers brushing the folded paper in her pocket. But something inside her told her she didn’t need to read it. She already knew the words by heart.
“Michael,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you believe in God? And if you do…” she hesitated, her throat tightening, “why does He take away the people we love most?”
The gym fell silent. Even the air seemed to still.
Jordan’s expression changed. He looked at her—not just at the girl in the Bulls jersey, but at the weight she carried, the loss she bore. Slowly, he reached for the gold chain around his neck, revealing a small cross that had been tucked beneath his collar.
“I lost my father too,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I asked the same questions. The night he died, I went to the court behind my house and played until sunrise, asking why. Why him? Why now?” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “But the thing is, Sarah, sometimes the answers don’t come in words. They come in moments. In the people who help carry us when we can’t stand. In the memories that never leave us. In the game that still connects us.”
He picked up a ball and held it out to her. “Show me that fadeaway shot your dad was going to teach you.”
Sarah took the ball, her hands steady now. She moved to the free throw line, just like in the church court where her father had coached her. She dribbled once, twice, three times, then closed her eyes.
Trust your shot. Trust yourself. Faith in motion.
She jumped, leaned back, and released.
The ball arced through the air, spinning, gliding, hanging for a moment before swishing through the net. Perfect.
The sound echoed in the gym, filling the space between question and answer, between earth and heaven. Jordan smiled, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“That wasn’t just a shot,” he said. “That was a conversation.”
That night, Sarah sat at her kitchen table, her journal open before her.
Dear Dad,
I asked my question today. But the answer wasn’t in words. It was in the swish of a perfect shot. In the way Michael Jordan looked at me like he understood. In the way basketball still feels like a prayer, even when I don’t have the words.
I think I get it now. Love doesn’t disappear. It just changes form. Like a jump shot turning into a rebound. Like a game that never really ends.
You’re still here, Dad. Every time I step onto the court. Every time I take the shot.
And I won’t stop shooting.
Sarah closed her journal and looked at the basketball sitting by her door. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint bounce of a ball on pavement, like an echo from heaven, like a reminder that she was never truly alone.
Play video:
