The Trouble with Always Being Right

Earlier this year, I came across a 100-year-old short story by Somerset Maugham—“Mr. Know-All.” Now, I’ve read a few of his works, but it hit me differently. Not because it was clever, and it is, or tightly written, but because I saw someone in it that looked suspiciously like me.

You see, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life with my nose in books and my mouth at the microphone. It’s a combination that’ll either get you a loyal audience or a very patient circle of friends.

And depending on the day, I’ve had both—and tested both.

I once got invited to speak at a Wednesday night church supper. The flyer said, “Words on Community and Grace.” I took that to mean they wanted something thoughtful—so I brought a 20-minute talk on the migration patterns of Canadian geese.

I figured folks would be fascinated by how those birds fly in formation and take turns leading the flock. I mean, there’s a faith-oriented metaphor in there somewhere, right?

Well, turns out folks just wanted to be reminded that grace matters more than facts. I didn’t know I’d misread the room until Miss Eunice Tiller—Sunday school teacher emeritus and matriarch of decency—took me gently by the elbow after the last spoon scraped the bottom of the banana pudding dish.

“Darlin’,” she said with a smile that felt like a warm slap, “that was… informative. But we were hopin’ for somethin’ a little more heart and a little less encyclopedia.”

I nodded and smiled, but it landed hard on me.

That night I read the story, I lay in bed thinking about Maugham’s Mr. Know-All—the character who was unbearable until the moment he quietly did the right thing without needing credit. And I realized, maybe the world didn’t need one more man explaining things. It needed one more man willing to listen.

So I made a vow the night I failed on the lecture circuit: talk less, listen more, and ask myself whether I was being helpful or just being right. It’s been the hardest vow I have ever tried to keep.

A few weeks later, a friend dropped by to borrow a fence stretcher. I met him on the porch, coffee in hand.

We sat there a while, letting the wind do most of the talking. Then, maybe more to myself than my friend, I said, “You ever notice how quiet the world gets when you stop trying to dominate every conversation?”

He gave me a slow grin. “You finally figure that out?”

I chuckled. “Took me long enough.”

When he got up to leave, I said, “I’m still learning how to be right without having to prove it.”

That’s a lesson you won’t find in most textbooks, but maybe it oughta be taught in grammar school, right along with the history of goose migration across America.