A Little Girl Asks Michael Jordan About God – His Response Brings Her To Tears

“The Loose Button That Touched the Nation: Michael Jordan’s Answer to a Child’s Prayer”

Wendy Thompson was only ten years old, but her question cut through noise and fame like a sharp whisper in a quiet room: “Does God really hear the prayers of children, especially those with single moms who are trying so hard?” It was a question she wrote in crayon—on wrinkled paper—addressed not to a priest, teacher, or even her father who had left, but to a man she had only seen on TV: Michael Jordan.

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The letter wasn’t supposed to do much. Wendy knew he was famous, busy, maybe even too important. But when you’re ten, and your teddy bear has only one good eye left, and your mom comes home tired every night, you don’t have the luxury of silence. You have hope—and a purple crayon.

And it was that exact hope that traveled across miles and desks and corporate halls until it landed on Michael Jordan’s desk at the Jordan Brand headquarters.

When Michael read Wendy’s letter, his eyes paused not at the words first, but the drawing. A little girl, holding hands with her mother under a bright sun, with a teddy bear—Mr. Fuzzy—by her side, his eye a lopsided button.

The simplicity shattered him.

That night, Michael couldn’t sleep. He thought about his own kids, his mother’s sacrifices, and the communities he’d promised to help. But something in Wendy’s letter reminded him of a forgotten truth: that sometimes the loudest prayers come from the smallest voices.

So, he picked up his phone. “Get me her school. Now.”

Two weeks later, Wendy was called to the principal’s office. Her heart raced—had she forgotten her homework? Was her mom okay?

She wasn’t prepared for what was waiting: a conference call on speakerphone. “Hello Wendy,” a woman’s kind voice echoed. “My name is Angela Morrison from Michael Jordan’s team. We read your letter, and Michael wants to meet you.”

The room blurred. Wendy clutched Mr. Fuzzy in her arms, his loose button pressing into her cheek. “He… he read it?”

Not just read it. He kept it.

Plans were made swiftly. Flights booked. A black car pulled up to their small apartment. Wendy had never been on a plane. Her mother had never missed a shift—until now. This was bigger.

When they landed in Chicago, they were ushered into a hotel with sparkling chandeliers and plush carpets. Wendy felt like a character in a storybook. But it wasn’t magic—it was Michael Jordan’s kindness pulling strings quietly in the background.

The next morning, dressed in a thrifted pink dress and holding Mr. Fuzzy tightly, Wendy entered the building where Michael was waiting. She didn’t know what to expect. But she certainly didn’t expect him to kneel down and speak to her like she was the most important person in the room.

“You must be Wendy,” he said, smiling. “And who’s this? Mr. Fuzzy?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. “He helped me write the letter.”

Michael took Mr. Fuzzy gently. “I see he’s got a loose button eye. Looks like he’s been through a lot.”

“He has,” Wendy said. “My mom fixed him after my dad left.”

Michael paused. “You know… sometimes the things that look broken on the outside are the ones that help us the most.”

Wendy blinked.

“That loose button? It tells a story. One of love. One of survival. One of faith. That bear may not be perfect—but neither are we. And that’s okay.”

Jessica, Wendy’s mom, wiped away tears.

Wendy asked the question she had waited weeks to ask: “Does God hear our prayers even when life is hard? Even when my mom works two jobs and we still don’t have enough?”

Michael looked serious. “I think God hears every prayer. But sometimes… sometimes He answers them through people. Through actions. Through letters like yours.”

Then Michael did something no one expected. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the crumpled letter with Wendy’s crayon handwriting.

“This,” he said, “this changed something in me. We’ve been planning a new initiative to help struggling families. Your letter helped us understand what truly matters.”

He turned to Jessica. “Mrs. Miller, we’d like to offer you a place in our new job training and support program. It means better hours, better pay—and more time with your daughter.”

Jessica gasped. “Is this… real?”

“It’s real,” Michael nodded. “You work hard. You deserve more than just surviving.”

Wendy burst out, “Say yes, Mom!”

The room erupted in laughter. And Michael, now smiling fully, turned to Wendy again. “Would you mind if we shared your story? I think others could learn something from your loose button.”

Wendy nodded. Then she did something that stunned everyone. She took the new button Michael had gifted her for Mr. Fuzzy—and handed it back.

“Maybe someone else needs this more than we do,” she said. “Mr. Fuzzy’s eye reminds me of how Mom fixes things… even when it’s hard.”

Michael was so moved, he named the national initiative after that very moment: The Loose Button Project. It would offer job training, childcare support, and hope to thousands of single-parent families.

But the surprises weren’t done.

As Wendy flew home, she opened an envelope marked with a gold star. It was from her father. A man she hadn’t seen in three years.

“I saw you on TV,” it read. “Your words reminded me that even broken things can still be loved. I’ve been trying to be a better man. I’d like to meet… if you’re ready.”

Inside the envelope was a small, worn button—once part of his police uniform. “This is my loose button,” he wrote. “A sign I haven’t forgotten. I hope we can fix what’s left, together.”

Back home, the story had already spread across America. Letters flooded in. Children sent drawings. Parents sent prayers. And in one small town, Wendy was met at the school gates with a banner: Welcome Home, Wendy.

Even Tommy—the boy who had once mocked her—was there, holding a broken action figure with a missing arm.

“I used to hide this,” he admitted. “But maybe… it’s okay to be broken too.”

Wendy handed him the shiny button Michael had given her. “It’s not to fix it,” she said. “It’s to remind you… broken things tell important stories.”

That night, Wendy looked at the calendar in her waiting space. The Xs weren’t just days anymore. They were milestones of faith. Of believing. Of holding on.

She pressed Mr. Fuzzy close, his loose button eye twinkling in the moonlight.

“You’re not broken,” she whispered. “You’re part of something bigger.”

Outside, the stars flickered. Inside, a little girl’s quiet hope had become a nation’s movement.

Because sometimes, faith isn’t loud. It’s written in crayon, held together by thread, and whispered through the heart of a child who just believes someone is listening.

And sometimes… someone really is.

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