When I was a child, my mother would often take us to visit my great-aunt, who lived in a nursing home in Columbus, GA. When we would enter the building, we would be greeted by a resident who spent his days sitting by the front door. He seemed to always be there. The front of the building had large floor-to-ceiling windows. He likely enjoyed the spot by the front door because it afforded him a good view of the world outside. We would have likely walked past this man with little more than a polite greeting if it were not for his aggressive initiation of a conversation. When the man saw someone enter through the front door and begin to walk toward him, he would enthusiastically and with great confidence shout out, “I bet I know where you got your shoes!” This was certainly a strange declaration to start a social interaction with. He was a stranger to me, and as a child, I found the whole experience a bit unsettling. But not wanting to be disrespectful, I acquiesced to his initiation of conversation and responded with a sheepish “Where?” The man immediately broke into a wide and gleeful smile and said with unrestrained laughter, “On your feet!”

It was a mildly funny joke but what made it remarkable in my memory was that this exact interaction happened every time I passed by the man who sat by the front door. When we entered the building, “I bet I know where you got your shoes?” When we left the building, “I bet I know where you got your shoes?” If something was left in the car and needed to be retrieved while we were visiting my aunt both on the exit and the return, “I bet I know where you got your shoes?” The first time I experienced this man’s joke, I found it slightly amusing, but after the 100th time, I was tempted to be annoyed by the repetitive nature of the conversation. However, I knew that politeness and respect demanded that I politely respond to his question and acknowledge his joke with a perfunctory laugh before walking on my way. As a child, I did not understand dementia or why this man told the same joke over and over again. Though the conversation and joke were painfully repetitive to me, it is likely that, for this man in the nursing home, each interaction was fresh and new no matter how often it happened each day.

Dementia is a terrible disease that brings with it many heartaches. Yet in this interaction, there was beauty and grace in how God used this man to teach me a valuable truth. I was very young when I had these encounters, so I did not always know how to respond to the man or think about the experience. To help me with this, my mother would speak a word of instruction as we made our way down the hallways after interacting with the man at the front door. She would say, “Be careful what you put into your heart and mind. Some day you may lose the ability to disguise or hide what is truly in your heart. On that day, your words will reveal what is truly in your heart.”

That silly joke and that important lesson made an impact on me. Our words reveal our heart. Jesus said it this way:

“For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” (Matthew 12:34, ESV)

It may be that you can exert some control over your speech for the sake of appearances, politeness, or social appropriateness. You may use the vilest language during the work week but never utter a curse word while at church. But someday stress, external pressure, or physical or mental diminishment will steal from you the strength and ability to hide or control what the mouth reveals about the true nature of your heart. To this day my memory of the man who sat by the front door of that nursing home serves as a testimony to me to guard what I fill my heart and mind with.

I witnessed this testimony more recently in our church with a dear church member. When I first met him in 2012, he was already in the grips of dementia. Even though his mind was growing dim, there were a few things that remained. Our conversations generally consisted of about 20 things that he remembered. He would tell me that he was married to his wife, served in the Navy, was a member of Central Baptist Church, that I was his pastor, that he was 85 years old (As the years went by, he stuck with 85), and that he thought I needed to shave (I have a goatee). As dementia took more and more from him, his conversations with me got shorter and shorter. Eventually, our conversations only included two things. He would tell me that he was married to his wife and that he was a member of Central Baptist Church.

When I would visit with him, I was reminded again of the principle my mother taught me so many years earlier - that our speech reveals our heart. It was heartbreaking to see him struggle with dementia. His precious wife cared for him very well, but I knew she grieved what dementia was taking from her husband. Yet even in that grief and physical brokenness, he bore a beautiful testimony. As the mental ability to put up a front or mask crumbled, what was revealed was that he loved his wife and he identified with Christ. That is a good testimony indeed.

No one can determine what will happen tomorrow. It may be that I come to the end of my life while still actively preaching, doing church ministry, and participating in family life. Or it may be that as a result of physical or mental decline, I must endure many years of diminished ability. I may become the man who sits in the hallway of a care facility, looking forward to the next passerby to tell them the one joke I can remember. It could be that someday the only things I will remember are a few details about my life. Whatever befalls me, I pray that what is revealed about my heart is that I have been transformed by the living God. I pray that what flows from the fountain of my heart will always be pleasing to God.