Bishop TD Jakes Has Medical Emergency In The Pulpit

I had a very nasty experience with him and his son in the mall years ago and it took me a long time to even listen to him again.
But after seeing him and then hearing the lawsuit he filed against one of his accusers and the health issue being mentioned so soon after it happened, make me really look at him sideways.
Temples heal all ,sister

A wink or two may add yrs to the man
 
If you don't mind sharing, what happened?

Yeah, the timing of things sure seemed convenient
I was at North Park Mall years ago and I saw him and he walked by me, and I said "oh hi Bishop Jakes, it's so nice to see you" now I was a bit star stuck, but I never walked up on him. It was more like a shy hand wave and his son (the one that was later was caught in the park for solicitation of men) pushed me like I was walking up on him, and I said excuse me, and he said don't get too close.

I was really confused and because I did grow up in church, I said "does he not have the whole armor of God on him at all times" and then Bishop was like "come my child", I said nah I'm good. And he went on to say he would like to pray for me, I said sir, if you feel my lil self was a threat to you, then I'll pass on even coming in your space. Other people continue to acknowledge him and his son continued but Bishop continued looking at me as I was walking off and I never saw him the same any more.

Years later, we had a guest pastor come to our church and it was him, I got my purse and left.

I think I was like that because at the time I was really heavy in church and I listened to him a lot, but later I also learned that he will only officiate certain members weddings, funeral, etc and I understand being a pastor of such a large congregation you can't be there for everyone and everything, but again I just look at him different.
 
Stroke

The days leading up to that near-fatal moment were a tangled knot of stress and anger, emotions that wrapped themselves tightly around my chest and squeezed. Each day felt like a storm brewing on the horizon, distant thunder rumbling but never quite reaching me. I ignored the signs—the pounding in my head, the dull ache behind my eyes that whispered warnings I was too stubborn to hear. I told myself it was dehydration, exhaustion, anything but what it really was: my body’s quiet rebellion, breaking down one cell at a time, like an old machine groaning under the weight of too much pressure.

Mama said she dreaded the call, and deep down, I think I did too. But denial was easier than facing the truth, and so I kept going, one foot in front of the other, until the day my body decided it had had enough. That day came like a thief in the night, stealing my strength, my breath, my control. I remember the moment the world tilted, as if gravity had suddenly shifted, dragging me toward an unseen abyss.

The hospital lights were harsh, glaring down at me like interrogators demanding answers I didn’t have. The voices of the doctors swirled around me, urgent and sharp, but they felt distant, like echoes in a cavern I couldn’t quite escape. My body was a battlefield, and I was losing the war. I felt myself fading, slipping through the cracks of consciousness as though my soul was being gently pried from its shell.

When I came to, I was hooked up to a maze of machines, their steady beeping the only rhythm grounding me in reality. Wires and tubes snaked from my body like the roots of some unnatural tree, keeping me tethered to life. The morphine drip was a cruel savior, dulling the sharp edges of pain but leaving behind a haze that blurred the lines between dream and nightmare. My body was heavy, a vessel weighed down by the weight of survival, and every breath felt like an effort.

And then there was the light. The white light I’d heard so many stories about—always described as warm, as welcoming. But to me, it was terrifying in its finality, a curtain slowly lowering on the stage of my life. As I drifted closer, I saw her: my grandmother. She stood there, radiant and calm, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of my fear.

“Turn around,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “It’s not your time. I’m not ready for you yet.”

Her words were an anchor, pulling me back from the edge of eternity. The warmth of her presence wrapped around me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety came with a price: the knowledge that I had to fight my way back. And so I did.

The return was brutal. Pain clawed at me, and the weight of paralysis was a cruel chain, binding me to a reality I didn’t recognize. My body felt foreign, unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The machines around me hummed and clicked like cold, lifeless sentinels, and the morphine dulled my mind just enough to make me question if I was truly alive or simply existing.

Life had become a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment, and I was acutely aware of how close I had come to losing it all. Death had whispered in my ear, and though I had turned away, its voice still lingered, a reminder of the razor-thin line between here and the beyond.

Each day since then has been a reckoning. A slow, painful climb out of the darkness, every step forward marked by frustration and doubt. But also by gratitude—because no matter how hard it is, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind, a constant refrain: It’s not your time.

Life, I’ve learned, is both fragile and fierce, a flame that can be snuffed out in an instant but also one that can burn brightly again, even after it’s been nearly extinguished. The machines and the morphine may have saved me, but it was the will to fight—the will to live—that truly brought me back. Death may have brushed against me that day, but I refused to let it claim me. Not yet. Not now. There’s still more of this story to tell.
 
Stroke

The days leading up to that near-fatal moment were a tangled knot of stress and anger, emotions that wrapped themselves tightly around my chest and squeezed. Each day felt like a storm brewing on the horizon, distant thunder rumbling but never quite reaching me. I ignored the signs—the pounding in my head, the dull ache behind my eyes that whispered warnings I was too stubborn to hear. I told myself it was dehydration, exhaustion, anything but what it really was: my body’s quiet rebellion, breaking down one cell at a time, like an old machine groaning under the weight of too much pressure.

Mama said she dreaded the call, and deep down, I think I did too. But denial was easier than facing the truth, and so I kept going, one foot in front of the other, until the day my body decided it had had enough. That day came like a thief in the night, stealing my strength, my breath, my control. I remember the moment the world tilted, as if gravity had suddenly shifted, dragging me toward an unseen abyss.

The hospital lights were harsh, glaring down at me like interrogators demanding answers I didn’t have. The voices of the doctors swirled around me, urgent and sharp, but they felt distant, like echoes in a cavern I couldn’t quite escape. My body was a battlefield, and I was losing the war. I felt myself fading, slipping through the cracks of consciousness as though my soul was being gently pried from its shell.

When I came to, I was hooked up to a maze of machines, their steady beeping the only rhythm grounding me in reality. Wires and tubes snaked from my body like the roots of some unnatural tree, keeping me tethered to life. The morphine drip was a cruel savior, dulling the sharp edges of pain but leaving behind a haze that blurred the lines between dream and nightmare. My body was heavy, a vessel weighed down by the weight of survival, and every breath felt like an effort.

And then there was the light. The white light I’d heard so many stories about—always described as warm, as welcoming. But to me, it was terrifying in its finality, a curtain slowly lowering on the stage of my life. As I drifted closer, I saw her: my grandmother. She stood there, radiant and calm, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of my fear.

“Turn around,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “It’s not your time. I’m not ready for you yet.”

Her words were an anchor, pulling me back from the edge of eternity. The warmth of her presence wrapped around me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety came with a price: the knowledge that I had to fight my way back. And so I did.

The return was brutal. Pain clawed at me, and the weight of paralysis was a cruel chain, binding me to a reality I didn’t recognize. My body felt foreign, unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The machines around me hummed and clicked like cold, lifeless sentinels, and the morphine dulled my mind just enough to make me question if I was truly alive or simply existing.

Life had become a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment, and I was acutely aware of how close I had come to losing it all. Death had whispered in my ear, and though I had turned away, its voice still lingered, a reminder of the razor-thin line between here and the beyond.

Each day since then has been a reckoning. A slow, painful climb out of the darkness, every step forward marked by frustration and doubt. But also by gratitude—because no matter how hard it is, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind, a constant refrain: It’s not your time.

Life, I’ve learned, is both fragile and fierce, a flame that can be snuffed out in an instant but also one that can burn brightly again, even after it’s been nearly extinguished. The machines and the morphine may have saved me, but it was the will to fight—the will to live—that truly brought me back. Death may have brushed against me that day, but I refused to let it claim me. Not yet. Not now. There’s still more of this story to tell.
Damn glad you are in recovering. Those symptoms you described echo some of the things I’ve been going through; mostly thinking I’m just getting old and what not. I will certainly bring this up at my yearly with my doc.
 
Agreed.


My dad's uncle had one in his late-50s in early-1997 while talking to a friend in the parking lot of a mini mall. He face-planted off the sidewalk, and that was a wrap.
I've had a few pastors back then who died from a heart attack including my uncle who had a stroke and later died. This was at the time when I used to got church until I discovered all this religion shit was some bullshit.
 
Thanks, that's why it's best to take care of yourself, limit your stress, getting plenty of rest and drink plenty of water.




Agreed. As pops would tell us growing up - "Look out for number 1 ... which is yourself. And of course your immediate loved ones."


As his mom would say - "Health is wealth. If you don't have your health, you've got nothing ..."


As the question, saying or expression goes too ... "Work to live, or live to work?"


I think alot of times too lifestyle / career adds to many stressors, especially in North America. Think about all the people with long commutes to work, stressful jobs, poor diets, and super busy family or social lives. Sure, they might feel "productive" getting all types of things done, but when do they have time for themselves to relax, recharge, and unwind?


Many other cultures aren't caught up in all this bullshit and merely "work to live" instead ...
 
Stroke

The days leading up to that near-fatal moment were a tangled knot of stress and anger, emotions that wrapped themselves tightly around my chest and squeezed. Each day felt like a storm brewing on the horizon, distant thunder rumbling but never quite reaching me. I ignored the signs—the pounding in my head, the dull ache behind my eyes that whispered warnings I was too stubborn to hear. I told myself it was dehydration, exhaustion, anything but what it really was: my body’s quiet rebellion, breaking down one cell at a time, like an old machine groaning under the weight of too much pressure.

Mama said she dreaded the call, and deep down, I think I did too. But denial was easier than facing the truth, and so I kept going, one foot in front of the other, until the day my body decided it had had enough. That day came like a thief in the night, stealing my strength, my breath, my control. I remember the moment the world tilted, as if gravity had suddenly shifted, dragging me toward an unseen abyss.

The hospital lights were harsh, glaring down at me like interrogators demanding answers I didn’t have. The voices of the doctors swirled around me, urgent and sharp, but they felt distant, like echoes in a cavern I couldn’t quite escape. My body was a battlefield, and I was losing the war. I felt myself fading, slipping through the cracks of consciousness as though my soul was being gently pried from its shell.

When I came to, I was hooked up to a maze of machines, their steady beeping the only rhythm grounding me in reality. Wires and tubes snaked from my body like the roots of some unnatural tree, keeping me tethered to life. The morphine drip was a cruel savior, dulling the sharp edges of pain but leaving behind a haze that blurred the lines between dream and nightmare. My body was heavy, a vessel weighed down by the weight of survival, and every breath felt like an effort.

And then there was the light. The white light I’d heard so many stories about—always described as warm, as welcoming. But to me, it was terrifying in its finality, a curtain slowly lowering on the stage of my life. As I drifted closer, I saw her: my grandmother. She stood there, radiant and calm, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of my fear.

“Turn around,” she said, her voice steady and certain. “It’s not your time. I’m not ready for you yet.”

Her words were an anchor, pulling me back from the edge of eternity. The warmth of her presence wrapped around me, and for a moment, I felt safe. But the safety came with a price: the knowledge that I had to fight my way back. And so I did.

The return was brutal. Pain clawed at me, and the weight of paralysis was a cruel chain, binding me to a reality I didn’t recognize. My body felt foreign, unresponsive, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The machines around me hummed and clicked like cold, lifeless sentinels, and the morphine dulled my mind just enough to make me question if I was truly alive or simply existing.

Life had become a fragile thread, one that could snap at any moment, and I was acutely aware of how close I had come to losing it all. Death had whispered in my ear, and though I had turned away, its voice still lingered, a reminder of the razor-thin line between here and the beyond.

Each day since then has been a reckoning. A slow, painful climb out of the darkness, every step forward marked by frustration and doubt. But also by gratitude—because no matter how hard it is, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. My grandmother’s words echo in my mind, a constant refrain: It’s not your time.

Life, I’ve learned, is both fragile and fierce, a flame that can be snuffed out in an instant but also one that can burn brightly again, even after it’s been nearly extinguished. The machines and the morphine may have saved me, but it was the will to fight—the will to live—that truly brought me back. Death may have brushed against me that day, but I refused to let it claim me. Not yet. Not now. There’s still more of this story to tell.
God bless you, brother. I hope your recovery has been successful. On another note, you are an exceptional writer! Are you published?
 
My recovery is going well, thank. Believe it or not, I was published in an anthology by Nikki Giovanni. I’m considering publishing a book now.
I'm glad to hear it. That's great, bro. I write as well, mainly poetry. Nikki dug your work and included you in an anthology? Excellent. Publishing a book sounds like a good idea.
 
I had a very nasty experience with him and his son in the mall years ago and it took me a long time to even listen to him again.
But after seeing him and then hearing the lawsuit he filed against one of his accusers and the health issue being mentioned so soon after it happened, make me really look at him sideways.
So many jokes to be had from this one line.
:idea:
:lol:
 
I'm glad to hear it. That's great, bro. I write as well, mainly poetry. Nikki dug your work and included you in an anthology? Excellent. Publishing a book sounds like a good idea.
Yes, I am in her 1999 anthology, Grand Fathers. We formed a friendship from that. Yes, I am seriously considering a book. So you're a poet? I got my start on the spoken word scene here in Houston at Mahogany Cafe.
 
Yes, I am in her 1999 anthology, Grand Fathers. We formed a friendship from that. Yes, I am seriously considering a book. So you're a poet? I got my start on the spoken word scene here in Houston at Mahogany Cafe.
I am. From 1999 to the early 2000s, I performed/taught/hosted poetry here in Chicago at a number of places across the city. My preference these days is more for writing than for the stage. However, when I'm inspired to write things that can encourage, heal, inspire or be life-giving, then I'm glad to perform.
 
I am. From 1999 to the early 2000s, I performed/taught/hosted poetry here in Chicago at a number of places across the city. My preference these days is more for writing than for the stage. However, when I'm inspired to write things that can encourage, heal, inspire or be life-giving, then I'm glad to perform.
Likewise. My stage days came to an end with Covid, although I am considering a comeback.
 
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