Over the past few days, I’ve written a couple of articles about emotional intelligence. One crucial part of it—whether at home, in the workplace, or anywhere else—is the way we give feedback. And if you ask me, this was one of my dad’s quiet superpowers. He had a way of correcting without crushing. His words built people up, even when he was pointing out what wasn’t working.
He had these little phrases that stuck. For instance, instead of blurting out, “I disagree,” when he didn’t see reason with your point, he would begin with, “I quite agree with this…” By the time he finished the word “quite,” you already sensed a turn was coming, but your guard was lowered enough to listen. He would name the part he agreed with first, then gently explain where he differed. It made people lean in rather than put up a wall.
And truth is, feedback is never easy. Both giving and receiving it can stir up defenses we don’t even notice. Our instinct is to protect ourselves when we hear something we don’t like. That’s why the way feedback is framed matters so much — the message can either land or be completely lost.
Another classic example of one of his little phrases is one he would use when ideas didn’t add up. Instead of calling them “senseless”, “silly” or “dumb”, he’d say, “It makes little sense.” Still honest, but far kinder. And when he wanted to say thank you, he didn’t settle for the tired “thank you very much.” He would say, “thank you very large.” Somehow those words carried a warmth you could actually feel, and they showed just how big his gratitude really was.
Beyond his choice of words, he had a way of structuring feedback: start with appreciation, state the facts, lay out the implications, then circle back to something positive or some humour. He wrapped hard truths in dignity. He knew that people naturally brace themselves against criticism, but if you began with gratitude and ended with hope, the correction would land differently.
It reminds me of Nathan confronting David after his sin with Bathsheba. Nathan didn’t march in with accusations. Instead, he told a story that drew David in, softened his defenses, and helped him see the truth for himself. The wisdom in that approach is the same lesson my dad lived out—gentle words and thoughtful framing can open a heart where blunt force would only close it. “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver” (Proverbs 25:11).
Looking back now, I realize how rare and admirable that was. It isn’t easy to hold the balance of honesty and kindness. I miss him deeply, but I carry this part of his legacy with me. If I can learn to give feedback the way he did—to my children, to my spouse, to colleagues—then I know I’m honoring what he modeled.
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