Parenting from Under the Tarp

I’m 45 now, and for as long as I can remember, going on thirty, maybe thirty-five years, I’ve fallen asleep to the hum of a box fan and the sound of thunderstorms. Sometimes real, usually recorded. I’ve traced that habit back to a single memory from when I was five or six. Maybe younger. It happened at Grandma Wanda’s house in Independence, Missouri.

She lived just off a busy street, in a little house with a long backyard that ended at a fence and a stand of trees. She was my dad’s mom. Every time we visited, she’d be parked at the dining room table by a big picture window, cigarette in hand. Her Collie-Shepherd mix, Sheba, always curled up beneath her feet. That was the scene.

But one visit stands out from the rest. I don’t remember anyone being there except me and Dad. A storm was rolling in, and the sky was starting to bruise over. For whatever reason, he grabbed a blue tarp, walked into the backyard, laid it down, folded it in half, and looked at me.

“Wanna ride out the storm with me under the tarp?” he said.

It sounded like the greatest idea I’d ever heard. And it was.

It started with a few sprinkles, then a steady fall, then a full-on downpour. Thunder cracked. Wind whipped the tarp. We rolled the edges under us so it wouldn’t blow away. I wasn’t scared. I was with my dad. I felt safe and alive, all at once. Like I’d been invited into something bigger than me.

That memory stuck. It’s still one of the most vivid I’ve got. And I think that’s why the box fan and the thunderstorm tracks followed me all these years. They’re not just background noise. They take me back to that yard, that tarp, that storm. Back to a moment when the world felt wild and good and I didn’t have to carry it on my shoulders.

Parents are powerful like that.

They don’t always feel powerful. Most days, they probably feel worn thin, unnoticed. Like nothing they say or do is sticking. But here I am, four decades later, still shaped by a small decision my dad made one afternoon.

Part of what made that moment hit so deep was this: I got to see my dad as a son. We were at his mom’s house, and for a few minutes, he wasn’t just my father. He was a boy again. He loved thunderstorms. Loved them enough to crawl into one for the thrill of it. And when he invited me under that tarp, he wasn’t just sheltering me. He was sharing his joy. Pulling me into something real.

That’s the part that lasted.

And I worry we’re losing that. A lot of younger parents are drowning in formulas and checklists. Social media makes it worse. Everything’s about doing it “right.” I get it. Structure matters. But so does soul. So does wonder.

We’ve forgotten how to enjoy life in front of our kids.

I’m convinced this is part of what needs recovering: a childlike joy. A curious love for the world God made. And then the guts to invite our kids into it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be impressive. It just has to be present. Fully present. Because when we show up like that, even the small things matter.

How do you become that kind of present? I think prayer and meditation are the antidote to the distracted and anxious soul.

In prayer, we cast our cares on Christ because he cares for us (1 Peter 5:7). You bring your stress, your fears, your never-ending to-do list. You offload it at the feet of someone strong enough to carry it. And as you praise him for who he is and what he’s done, something anchors in you. The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guards your heart and your mind in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:7).

Then you read some portion of Scripture and you carry it with you. Into the quiet of the living room. Into your morning walk. Into your drive to work. You toss it around in your head like a boy with a screwdriver and a broken toy.

What’s God saying? What does it mean? How does it land here, in this moment?

You may not get all the answers. That’s alright. What matters is that you’re training your mind to think through Scripture. Over time, you’ll start to see how it lines up. How God had you in that passage, on that day, to face that very thing. It gives you a sense that He’s near. That He’s with you. That no matter what storm is raging out there, God is with you under the tarp.

Joy, strength, and peace take hold of the Christian who prays and meditates. That kind of mindset spreads. People notice. They’re drawn to it. They want to be around it. They want to be like it. And your kids are no different.