DOWN HOME: No link between eyes & hands

down home

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We recently established who does not have eye-hand coordination in our family.

As if we didn’t know already.

Joanna and I flew out to Orlando for a long weekend so we could watch our son-in-law, Aaron, graduate from Reformed Theological Seminary.

When most people think of a trip to Orlando, they think of visiting amusement parks. We think of visiting Aaron and our oldest daughter, Lindsay.

On this trip, we didn’t even remotely consider taking in the Magic Kingdom or any of the bazillion tourist attractions in Central Florida.

We might’ve been tempted if one of them included an ark. By the time we arrived, Orlando had received something in the neighborhood of 20 inches of rain in the previous week or so.

Animals were seen walking two-by-two.

If a lumber store had sold gopher wood and pitch, they would’ve sold out.

TV stations could have replaced their weather forecasters with signs saying, “It’s going to rain for 40 days and 40 nights.”

So, except for attending the graduation, going out to eat and taking in a movie, we mostly hung out at Lindsay and Aaron’s apartment.

At least it didn’t rain inside their apartment.

To pass the time, Lindsay suggested we play video games. They own one of these wildly popular computer programs that enables you to stare at the TV set and pretend you’re participating in all kinds of sports.

We chose to race cars.

Actually, Lindsay and Aaron and Joanna raced simulated cars. I, on the other hand, caused myself to question whether I should get behind the wheel of a real automobile. Ever again.

At first, Jo was as bad as I was. But then she actually started her car. Aaron suggested I was over-steering, which seemed odd, because I couldn’t detect any correlation between what I did with the steering wheel and what my “car” did on the “track.”

Fortunately—or so I thought—someone said we should play the bowling game.

That person is capable of suggesting I sing a karaoke version of “My Way” in my underwear during halftime of the Super Bowl.

Turns out (and “turns” is the operative word here) I’m just as lousy at guiding a computerized bowling ball down a digitized bowling lane as I am steering a make-believe racecar around a pretend racetrack.

Turns out, I should’ve chosen a skunk as my avatar—the virtual image of who you’re supposed to be when you play video games. Both times, I got skunked by my wife, my daughter and my son-in-law.

Turns out, I’m a digital doofus.

But we had fun, and Lindsay, Aaron and Jo all loved me and promised not to hold my spasticness against me. Reminds me of God’s grace.


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