I'm a fun father, but not a good father. The hard decisions

In the honest and self-reflective words of John Lithgow, he once said: “I’m a fun father, but not a good father. The hard decisions always went to my wife.” These words, spoken with humility rather than shame, carry the weight of an eternal struggle — the balance between joy and responsibility, affection and duty, delight and discipline. Beneath their lighthearted surface lies a truth as ancient as fatherhood itself: that love alone, though pure, must sometimes be tempered by courage; that to guide, one must not only play, but also choose — even when the choosing hurts.

To the ancients, the father was not merely the bearer of laughter, but the anchor of moral order. In the household of old, he stood as the axis between compassion and command, teaching his children that joy must walk hand in hand with duty. Yet Lithgow’s confession reveals the tenderness of the modern man — a father who delights in being loved by his children but hesitates to wield the authority that shapes them. He admits that while he could fill the house with laughter, it was his wife, steady and strong, who bore the weight of decision and consequence. His words are not an excuse, but an offering of self-awareness — a recognition that love, without guidance, is incomplete.

In his honesty, Lithgow speaks for countless fathers who have wrestled with this same divide. The fun father is easy to adore, for he brings warmth and wonder to childhood — he is the one who plays, who tells stories, who forgives easily. But the good father, the one who sets boundaries and speaks truths that may sting, is harder to become. For to make the hard decisions is to risk misunderstanding, to choose not what pleases the moment, but what strengthens the soul. The good father must sometimes stand apart, so that his child may one day stand alone.

Consider the story of King David and his son Absalom. David, mighty in battle and revered by his people, faltered as a father. Out of love, he could not bring himself to discipline the son he adored. He longed to be fun and kind, but he hesitated to make the hard decisions that justice demanded. In time, Absalom’s pride and rebellion grew, leading to tragedy. When the son fell, the father’s cry echoed through the ages: “O Absalom, my son, my son!” From this tale, we learn that love without strength can wound as deeply as strength without love. To be a good father is to weave the two together, to hold joy in one hand and responsibility in the other.

John Lithgow’s reflection also reveals the quiet heroism of his wife, who bore the burden of decisions he could not make. In this acknowledgment, he honors the truth that parenthood is not a solo endeavor but a partnership — a dance of complementary strengths. Where one is tender, the other must sometimes be firm; where one seeks laughter, the other must seek balance. This is not weakness, but wisdom. For even the greatest fathers of old — from Odysseus to Marcus Aurelius — understood that the family, like a ship, sails only when each hand knows its task.

Yet there is a deeper compassion in his words, a reminder that even imperfection can become a kind of wisdom. The fun father gives what he can: the gift of joy, of safety in laughter, of a childhood colored by warmth rather than fear. Though he may not be the one to guide every choice, his love still plants seeds of happiness that endure. Children who grow under such affection learn that gentleness has its own strength, that laughter, too, is a form of grace. The lesson, then, is not to condemn the fun father, but to encourage the balance — to remind him that joy must be joined to guidance, and that the deepest love is the one that both delights and disciplines.

So let this teaching be carried forth: a father’s duty is not to be perfect, but to be whole. To laugh, but also to lead. To nurture joy, but not at the expense of truth. The hard decisions — though heavy — are sacred opportunities to show children that love sometimes wears the face of firmness, and that guidance is the truest gift a parent can give. When joy and wisdom walk together, the family becomes strong. When either stands alone, the bond weakens with time.

Thus, the teaching concludes: John Lithgow’s words are both confession and compass. They remind us that being a fun father brings light to the home, but being a good father builds the foundation beneath it. To all who raise children, let this be the rule — bring laughter often, but do not flee from the hard decisions. For in those choices lies the soul of parenthood, the quiet act of love that prepares your child not only to smile, but to stand.