The King Hates to Be Corrected

I would like to correct you on this one thing, ouch!

One thing I’ve noticed over the years is how uncomfortable it is to be corrected.

It doesn’t matter how old we are or how much experience we have. The moment someone points out that we might be wrong about something, something inside us tightens up just a little.

Most of us don’t show it openly. We may smile and nod. But internally, there is often a small reaction — a quiet resistance.

I’ve come to think of that reaction as the king in the garden.

The king does not like to be corrected.

It doesn’t matter whether the correction is right or wrong. The king hears something different. He hears a challenge to the throne.

Suddenly, the conversation is no longer about the idea. It becomes about protecting the position. My wife and I have this long-standing joke about who was right and who was wrong. One day, my wife said she was wrong twice today. Once when she thought she was wrong and a second when she realized she was wrong about being wrong.

There is something about just the thought of being wrong in another’s eyes that none of us really like. I have watched this happen in meetings, in families, and in myself. Someone offers a suggestion or a different perspective. Instead of considering it calmly, the mind begins building defenses. Reasons appear quickly. Explanations form. Evidence is gathered.

Not necessarily because the idea is wrong, but because the king has already stepped forward.

Years ago on the farm, corrections happened all the time. When you work with machinery, animals, weather, and soil, mistakes are unavoidable. If someone pointed out that a gate had been left open or a tractor was being run the wrong way, there wasn’t much point in arguing about it.

You fixed it and moved on.

Farming had a way of humbling you regularly. The weather corrected you. The animals corrected you. The land corrected you. Reality itself was always willing to point out where you were mistaken.

And strangely enough, that was one of the best teachers.

Over time, I realized that correction is not really an attack. Most of the time it’s simply information arriving from another direction.

But the king rarely sees it that way.

The king hears correction as a threat to authority. He would rather defend a mistake than surrender the throne.

The gardener inside us sees it differently.

The gardener knows that growth requires adjustment. Plants are pruned. Soil is amended. Rows are straightened when they drift. Nothing grows well without occasional correction.

When the king steps aside, correction becomes something else entirely.

It becomes learning.

And learning, in the end, grows a far better garden than pride ever could.

I think I will do a few more posts regarding the King, really meaning each of us.