And a crock pot too

Our church does Angel Food.

It has been a galvanizing vision that has captured the hearts of CHBC. Every volunteer has a story to tell about their service and the ministry they help.

Once a month, Angel Food delivers a pre-paid box of food to a person or family. This distribution takes place in our church and it is not unusual for us to greet and meet 600 people in three hours. Whole families come to pick up the groceries. We off load the food when it arrives, divide it out between frozen and non perishables.Then we set about to assemble the boxes according to each person's order.

It is amazing what this ministry in Abilene has done for our volunteers and our church folks. One thing we have learned is that many people don't just need food, they need contact. So many of them are shut away or too busy to sit down and get acquainted with someone. We have heard so many stories of people's struggle and heartache and anguish. Why, just because we were there to listen.

There have been funny moments and one of the best was Saturday. After the orders were filled, a man called back to the church after he had gone through his order. He wanted to know where his free crock pot was. The lady who answered was fully aware of the menu and remembered it mentioned nothing of a free crock pot and she was also aware that Angel Food did not do that. She said politely, "Well sir, where did you get the idea we were giving away a free crock pot with your order? He replied, "Well it said so on the menu, "A Marie Callendar' crock pot!" Our lady finally understood and said seriously but laughing inside, "Sir, that was a Marie Callendar Crock Pot Dinner. You furnish the crock pot and the packet has everything else in it for dinner."

That story got passed around and around. Great bargain on food and a crock pot too!

Pastoral Authority

One of the battle grounds in Baptist life over the past 30 years has been this business of "pastoral authority." My Catholic priest friend never quite understood the Baptist pastor and the authority he does not have. But, I have to give him a break because lots of Baptist pastors don't understand Baptist pastoral authority.

In Baptist life, "Pastor" is an paradoxically empty title full of expectations and responsibility but empty of any real authority. My Catholic priest friend scratched his head over this. Authority comes in the trenches of life as a pastor shows up and his presence helps the family or person in crisis. That person or family becomes open to the new pastor and his role as leader of the church. He develops credibility with them, love from them, and authority with them.

It is the one position of which I know that presumes the pastor is stupid and inexperienced even though he has degrees out the wazoo and comes with years of experience. The fact is that he is new here! He is unfamiliar to us, and we know the real Biblical authority is the preacher we listen to on the television or the author of the latest book we have read.

Pastoral authority is really like cotton candy. It appears to have substance until you taste it and it disappears on your tongue. The more you crave it, the more it disappears. In fact, the disciples represent the perception of pastoral authority. It is something to be coveted, fought over and ultimately passed down like one would a well worn coat.

Jesus knew better. In fact, each day of his earthly ministry the empty/full dimension of pastoral authority played out. The religious leaders were always questioning His authority, His miracles, His teachings. Jesus tried to steer them to the notion of humble service. In the local church, humble service opens the door to pastoral authority. It is not conveyed or bestowed. U have shared with my field work supervision students again and again. Authority is rooted in one's call to ministry, but it is confirmed by the congregation into which one pours ones life in service. It is not given by vote or action of the church. It is given over time as one proves himself or herself worthy.

It may not make sense but it is reality. And the wiser a young pastor is as he moves into a new church, the more he will determine to let authority come to him as he works the work of pastor. And come it does, if one stays long enough. The less sought the more given. The better it is used, the more is bestowed.

Putting a price tag on the memories

Today we finalized putting our house on the market.

It is not a fancy home by any standards, but it has been home for us while we have lived in Abilene. It has been the first home we ever owned and each room is full of memories.

The Realtor sat down with us yesterday. Today we finished the start of the process. There is just too much paperwork for anything good to happen in a reasonable time. There are questions I was asked about this house that really seem beyond the pale.

"Has anyone died in this house beyond natural causes and suicide. . ." Now, really, this house is forty+ years old. I can account for only 15 years and what difference does it make? Are we inventorying ghosts? Is the house worth more if someone was murdered here? What if there is a blood stain under the carpet? What if in a previous life this house was a Mafia safe house? If it will help sell the house or add to the value, I could make up something. I have tried to list everything wrong with the structure, but a good yarn that increased the value. . .

I know that not enough birds have died here. I know the family dog has ingested one every now and then. When I quizzed her on how she came to possess such a feast, she has remained mute--kind of like a dog which she plays the part of very well.

I know that few squirrels have perished on these premises, although the family dog has done her best to add that to her menu of offerings. She has done the same with a premise mouse that lives in a tree toward the back of the lot.

I know that I thought I was going to die a couple of times over the years but it was just kidney stones, dehydration, and then the trauma center bill. Beyond that, only the grass, assorted plants and other efforts at outdoor gardening have bit the dust. All the weeds have survived with a zeal that is envious.

So, lets get on with the sale. Although, now that you mention it, I think some Hollywood star broke down in our drive way.

The Coming Sad Farewell

I told my church family Sunday morning I was retiring from pastoral ministry.

After 15 years with them, it is a tough decision and a tough decision to hear. We have grown older together and like old shoes had finally, truly broken each other in. I knew them and they knew me. We both had scratches and bruises from living together as family.

Being a Baptist pastor is not unlike herding chickens. It is more art than science. Too much at any one time and they get scattered rather than gathered. Wading into them to lead is always noisy and can they cluck and cackle! Feathers are easily rankled and occasionally, the feathers fly. Some of the flock are just mean, but most are not. Sometimes all the effort produces eggs and all to often not.

For 33 years I have been a pastor--except for a six month period of time when the chickens won. In those years, I have been honored to serve four churches. It is appropriate that I finish my marathon at the best church with the greatest family. Not that the others weren't good. We just didn't stay long enough to get where we are with this family. No church was less than five years and each was hard to leave.

Now unless you are confused, I am not retiring to some retirement home on the waterfront. The churches I have served has never paid that much. Rather, we are moving closer to ailing family and undertaking new careers. Mine when finalized will be a real hoot. 33 years ago, I would never have seen myself doing what I will be doing. Yet, there it is. Staring right back at me.

What I do know is that I shall move off the scene of Baptist life. I won't much care who is fighting whom, and who is not taking care of whom. I probably won't even remember the new Executive Director's name or who is the next anointed President of the BGCT. I may even forget what those unwieldy initials stand for. Sadly, my convention home is not the bastion of integrity I once knew--or thought I knew.

Somehow that is all right with me. The cynic in me always knew what was going on. I was the best friend at the moment because I would ask the question no one else would ask and make the public comment no one else would make because it might come back on them politically. I was not politically naive, I just had no political ambitions. It is amazing how free that leaves one.

My folks will miss me and I will miss them deeply. Church family is just that, family. I will never forget them or get over them.

And across the coming years, I won't be surprised if a few of their feathers fall out on the floor of the new house where we live.

The House at the End of the Lane

My mother-in-law has Alzheimer's.

To the extent this disease can be diagnosed, Bonnie was diagnosed after a debilitating stroke four years ago. As with most folks, the path has been steadily downward with lots of bumps in the road.

We are moving closer to her and my wife's sister to help with the care that is required at this time of her life.

Bonnie,(my mother-in-law) has found us the perfect house to live in. It is a two story one down the lane from her house. She has already told her youngest daughter it would be perfect for us: lots of space and close to her. The only problem is there is no house at the end of the lane. The house at the end of the lane is the one in which Bonnie lives. Course she knows some of that now, because recently, someone came and moved the house so it is no longer there. Had it been there, it would have been perfect for us. However, Bonnie can't help wondering who it was that took it and when they moved it. It is all a confusing mystery to her.

Such is Alzheimer's. I compare it to Swiss cheese which I happen to like. Real Swiss cheese has those trademark holes throughout. Imagine your brain like that. Imagine that processing and memory are like that. One has a new experience and it is filed away in the cheese or sometimes in the hole. When one goes back to get the information, sometimes it is there and sometimes it is not. What is more confusing is when part of the memory is stored and part goes in the hole. Yep, it all gets rather mixed up.

Alzheimer's is all about the mind getting all mixed up. There are great medical explanations and great psychological explanations, but there is confusion, blank spaces and slowly all of that turns to darkness.

For Bonnie right now it is the house at the end of the lane. It is the house that isn't there.

Over time, it will become the person who isn't there.

Second Song, partial verse

I am a man who can live for a little while with partial answers to questions I did not ask.

I did discover in my search for understanding of the $27,000,000 that slipped quietly away from Texas Baptists under the last administration several things. First, I discovered what I already knew was something I already knew. The budget we passed at our last convention was unsustainable and the administration knew it when they presented it to the Executive Board which allowed itself to be coerced and cajoled into passing it on to us. Hence some of the reasons for my motion of censure for the Executive Board which was stopped by a parliamentary trick by a board member of the Free and Faithful Baptists of Texas (Texas Baptist Committed). Their battle cry has been, "Baptists have been free to discuss and decide." What I have learned over the past year is that just like the fundamentalists, they decide what is discussed and when it is discussed--if ever" Which, in my beady little mind make them another kind of spiritual tyranny I don't much care for. Spiritual tyranny is spiritual tyranny no matter what the flavor. In Texas, we don't have the Page Patterson kind, we have the TBC kind. I don't much care for either.

I also learned what I most feared and that was another causality of the last administration was a rather robust Minister's Counseling program. During the previous administration, ministry families were helped in great and small ways. Families in crisis found assistance for counseling. Terminated ministry families found help for moving and insurance and just basic needs when such a tragedy befell them.

I knew that the ministry was shrinking because I followed their budget allocation as best I could. The shell game made that somewhat daunting, but I tried. When the BGCT finally terminated the couple in that area, the broad, robust ministry was down to one couple in Dallas available to anyone who could reach them. The list of referring counselors had not been updated in years, and the curtain came down on what once was a great help and was now a hollow shell of a sham.

So, not only was money wasted in the Valley and who knows where else (I am waiting for the report) but hurting families were ignored or worse--pushed off on sympathetic counselors who would continue to see the family after the piddling BGCT reimbursement ran out ($40 for four sessions for a yearly family total of $160).

I cannot begin to express my disgust over the mismanagement that was permitted to take place over the last few years in our convention of churches. The results of that failure to face, contain, and stop the misuse of tithes and offerings will continue to bear the most toxic of fruits for years to come. It will not just be in trust lost but ministry families destroyed because enough assistance was not available. Gone are the ministry marriage retreats, gone the terminated minister's retreat, gone the emphasis on minister's mental health, gone, all gone! And why?

The administration was too busy robbing the treasury to help anyone with anything.

The attic where I live

Last night we got into the attic.

To be precise, my wife got in the attic and I held the ladder. To be honest, I have never liked our attic. It has never had that homey feel that one wants from their attic.

Our attic is as old as the house and is dusty and hot and full of creepy things that I don't much care for and would rather not believe share the same address with me. That's why my wife was in the attic and I was manning the ladder. However, I did take what she picked up and passed it down to our son who was on the floor making disgusting faces.

I only screamed once and that was when I thought a bat was escaping through the portal. It was just a piece of black plastic from a rotting garbage bag. But as it fell, it gave the impression of being a bat disturbed from its nest.

I can stand toe to toe with intemperate deacons, but put a flying bug in my zone of personal space and I have been known to freak out. We all have our Achilles's heal and one of mine is bugs that fly and can sting. I once exercised an extreme amount of energy for a man my age when I discovered a spider in my bed. We had been jetting around Eastern Europe making home visits with missionaries when I fell into this inviting bed. I just as quickly jumped out when I saw the spider. In my youth, such a jump would have garnered an Olympic medal, but at this advanced age, it simply represented safety from a creepy, crawly thing in my bed.

So, we passed down years of memories. My grandmother's old make-up case and set of luggage. She died when she was 97 and that was back in 198? Then there was my luggage, given to me by my parents when I graduated from high school. My dad used to tell people, "I gave each one of my sons luggage when they graduated from high school and none of them took the hint!" Several boxes of records dating back to the 1980's which bore witness to my phobia of the IRS.

And then there were the boy's clothes. It puzzled both my wife and I why our sons' middle school clothes should be stashed in the attic, but perhaps we planned to let them live up there unless their bedrooms looked less like an attic and more like living space.

And finally there was the last item. I don't remember what it was because it dumped dirt down the back of my shirt.

Up to that point, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, holding the ladder, I mean!

The last mailbox at the end of the way

For some time, our office staff has known with a sense of sadness our mail route was the least desirable in Abilene. I am not sure why. We try to be nice, with coffee in the morning, cold water in the afternoons and all the bathrooms any living person could want. But, sadly since our long term mailman retired seven years ago, we have been passed from carrier to carrier. No one has carried us long.

So, it was with a mild sense of betrayal that I went downtown last week and found our newest route man working in the "information/passport" office. I knew what that meant. We were dumped again.

So, I was in the office when the mail was brought later in the week. A nice young man stopped in and asked if he could use the facilities and we pointed them out. He came back with our mail and I asked him if we were losing our carrier again. He acknowledged what I already knew. We were orphaned again. However, to help us feel better, he said that although he was not the regular route carrier, he was familiar with our route.

I guessed that was meant to make us all feel better.

However, it went south when he said, "I used to deliver mail when the old pastor was here. I would bring it from next door." Our secretaries were standing there chatting with him and Helen (our receptionist) explained that the house next door was ours and missionaries often came and went and mail delivered to them after they left the residence was brought to our office.

I looked at this young man who must had been in his late twenties and quickly did the math. I asked, "You brought mail when the old pastor was here?" He replied, "Yes, that was three or four years ago."

I smiled as did Helen. I have learned to put up with a lot over the years being prematurely bald and prematurely gray and prematurely everything. I called his name and said, "I have been the pastor here for 15 years, and, well, _______ I am the old pastor who was here!"

Sadly, I fear, there goes another carrier.

One less friend to love

This Saturday, we will have a memorial service for a dear friend and gracious lady. Trained as a radiology technician, I knew her best as a modern day Job whose body buffeted her soul but could not win. A cancer survivor several times over, she and I visited in passing as she came to church sometimes with family and sometimes alone. Rita was occasionally in the hospital, but those stays were always serious.

I was by her bedside in the Spring of 2004 as she recuperated from a stroke. With her diabetes, TIA's and cancer, this stoke was a big hurdle for her to overcome to make a mission trip to Africa. She explained to me that she always wanted to be a missionary and go to Africa. She had been once in the 1980's and wanted deeply to go back.

So, I asked her, "Rita, are you going to be able to go in a couple of months?" She moved her partially paralyzed body around in the bed. "I will be ready."

And she was! With a little help from the team, she had the time of her life and her presence was more powerful than any could really appreciate. She stood as the quiet conqueror who found Jesus sufficient for everything.

And then Rita came home to face more cancer, and finally complications that took her life.

Rita loved people of which I was one who was blessed.

Saturday we will sing her praises, but she wants us to talk about Jesus. And then she wants some of her ashes scattered over Africa. That we can do, for a lady who was a missionary everywhere she was--even in Africa.

For jail, this ain't that bad!

I went to jail today. Yep, got picked up, hauled off to the hoosegow, was mug-shotted (and what a mug) and led away to a booth.

My infraction was so bad they arrested my secretary too.

Now, I have to say, I have not been treated like this before. I consider myself laid back and reasonably respectable, but I was treated--actually really well. How I have managed to escape jail this long, I don't know. But, it happened.

This was the Muscular Dystrophy lockup and folks who agree are picked up, photographed, and given a booth at (ok this is really tough) Texas Roadhouse. While I am calling friends and family, they bring me a cheddar burger. Ok, so I am not a high class criminal. This is as close as I want to get to a real jail.

I was surprised by the responses I received. It seemed that when I told my friends I was in jail, they though it was a good thing, and wondered how they could keep me in longer. Such friends as one collects over the years!

My younger brother was the most surprised. I am grateful for that. Sometimes one needs someone to believe in you enough they are amazed that you have landed in the hoosegow. And generous he was in helping me raise my bail.

And then there was my oldest niece. She saw it was me calling and let it go to voice mail.

I think what I learned from this is that in a crisis, never call my niece because I will be dead before she decides to call me back. My younger brother, on the other hand, is always good for a little bail money. These days, that is good to know.

Same Song, Second Verse?

A couple of months ago, I received a letter from the new CFO of the Baptist General Convention of Texas. She stressed the fiscal responsibility of the new regime.

So, I gave her time to settle in. Then I sent an e-mail to her asking for an accounting of the $27,000,000 in reserves that disappeared during the last administration. I stressed that I knew she had nothing to do with it, but certainly a paper trail could establish broad categories of where the money went.

To this day, I have had no response to my e-mail--not even a "we'll get back to you on this, thanks for writing." Nope, nothing! Nada! The address is correct, at least it is what was at the bottom of the letterhead.

So, I wonder,"Is this new administration really going to make a different in the trust level of the churches?" If they don't even acknowledge the receipt of mail, how can we move forward. At least the last administration bothered to give one the run-around. This one, nothing.

Why is this important? Well, for several reasons,actually.
First, it is important because the actual amount of misuse and fiscal irresponsibility is larger than $27,000,000. Up to $3,000,000. was wasted in the Valleygate fiasco. Now I sit on a board of trustees that is affiliated with the BGCT and I was notified last week their portion to us was dropping yet again. This time it will settle out about a little under what was wasted in the Valley. So, the point is that institutions are moving through cuts in support from the BGCT because money was misused, churches have reacted with mistrust and withholding funds and the institutions must tighten their belts. The $27,000,000 is also important because these reserves represent over half of the annual BGCT budget just flittered away.

While it did not happen on this administration's watch, they have questions to answer to help folks like me trust again.

Apparently, I am not alone. The money is not rushing in. I suggest it will not unless or until all the leadership truly demonstrate fiscal transparency by telling us where all the money went. From my point of view, even if one had little to do with the redirection and misspending of tithes and offerings from the churches, to know what happened and remain silent is to be a part of a lingering conspiracy--which will taint the BGCT for years to come.

If the current leadership waits too long, they will face the unrestrained tide of irrelevance.

The Cross-Dressing Convention

Cross-dressing is also known as transvestitism. Basically, it is a male dressing as a female for obvious reasons more obvious to some than others. My first experience with this phenomenon was a tale told by a rather bawdy uncle who enjoyed telling stories of his WW II experiences, some of which only occurred in his mind. On this one occasion, according to him, he had left a nightclub with a beautiful young woman on his arm. He hailed a cab and both got into the back seat. Quickly they began to do some lip-locking exercises when at some point Uncle discovered the person at the other end of his kisses was anatomically identical to himself. He hurriedly stopped the kissing, started the pounding, smearing the young lady's make-up and somehow ripping her dress. Both screamed and Uncle bailed from the cab deeply embarrassed.

It has crossed my mind that my convention has engaged in a bit of cross-dressing itself. In doing so, it's sole purpose has been to lure those young pastors who find denominations and conventions unattractive and undesirable into the fold.

Now the convention has done it's research. In fact, that may be where the $27,000,000.00 (yet unexplained)has gone. Somewhere in the bowels of the Baptist Building there is a priceless library saying young pastors prefer networks to conventions and denominations.

So, the BGCT dresses up like a network in order to appeal to this younger crowd.
At the same time, they have told the "over 50" crowd to "Get Lost." Like so many things, it has slipped pass the easily panicked leadership of the BGCT the "over 50" crowd has helped pay the rent for twenty to thirty years while the younger set is spreading their money among their networking friends, of which the BGCT is not one. Hence, the cross-dressing.

To believe this cross-dressing will seduce anyone is not unlike believing the fat lady in the circus can be re-billed as the "Human Zipper." 4,000+ churches and 20+ institutions is a lot to stuff in a skimpy networking dress and be the least bit believable.

But then, things have not been believable in BGCTland for a long time!

Xeriscapinging gone wild

In our part of the world, it is always a challenge to have enough water for the population. The summer it became a choice between water to drink and watering the yard, I began to let the grass die.

Then I discovered xeriscaping. Xeriscaping comes from two Greek words: "scaping" meaning all that one can see. "Xeri" meaning living on air. So xeriscaping is the art of turning one's yard into specific plants that can live on air. Thus one solves the water problem.

So with the money that we could have used to travel to the moon, we set out to possess a perfect xeriscaped yard.

Our efforts began with measuring the space in the back yard to be 'scaped. Having successfully staked out a large portion of the middle of the yard, I realized it was too much work for a man my age and promptly hired our yard man to do the digging. He and his wife are roughly the age of my mother. That is why we used the back yard. We have a small language barrier with our yard man so I carefully took staples and heavy string to mark out the exact places I wanted them to dig. Our dog, watched as I meticulously stapled and strung, stapled and strung. Finally, with that done, I stood as erect as I could to survey my surveying. The dog watched all of this, then with the speed of a bullet got up from her reclining position and tore through all the string within seconds. She was a marvel to behold: the speed, the agility, the completeness of her work. Murder was not an option because by this time, we had too much invested in the dog and I understand there are laws against such things unless you take them to the vet and paid them lots and lots of money to put the dog to sleep. The dog looked at me with a knowing grin that seemed to say "Gocha!"

Other slight problems arose. When, finally, the ground was partially prepared, my wife informed me she was not going to walk around the bed to carry out the trash, so, with some quick thinking, I staked out a walkway that appeared at first to be equally dividing the flower garden.

One of my many failing, I freely admit, is my inability to measure with any accuracy any item or space of any kind. I fail at measuring a three foot measuring stick. Go figure! I have purchased the best measuring tapes, electric eye devices, and still, something goes wrong. So, the walkway became a meandering strip of gravel dividing two unequal portions of a project taking on the cost overruns of a government contract.

So, with the digging done (actually purchased at a premium) I found that our local Master Gardeners were emphasizing carefully screened roses for our area to help us with our xeriscaping. I was a sucker and bought 15 of these disease resistant, pest resistant roses. One of them was a climber that survived three weeks of salt water during the hurricane Katrina. How could I go wrong with roses like this? The rest of the batch were different kinds of roses and different colors.

Next came the weed sheets. These are scientifically designed sheets of something scientifically made that cost a lot and promise to help one control weeds in their garden. Guaranteed to last for years, we tried to put these sheets down everywhere including our bathrooms and bedrooms. When one is preventing weeds, one can never be too careful. The sheets actually went down better in the house than in the back yard. Did I mention that one of the other problems we have in our area is high winds?

Now the sheets were down to prevent weeds which seem to be the only thing that grow during droughts. Next we bermed (which is a highly technical term us gardeners use for piling up mounds of dirt) the beds to reflect an artistic flair no one in our family possessed. And frankly it looked like an effort by an inartistic person to look artistic.

Finally, the beds were ready and the roses went in the ground and immediately began to die. Even the Katrina rose began to show signs it was not long for this world. I was somewhat stressed and even more distressed and more than a little depressed. All this work and expense to create a masterpiece of gardening nirvana and now it was dying before my eyes--well except for the rock walkway which the dog had developed a fondness for pooping on.

I searched the internet to find the solution and it became obvious that I was loving my roses to death. I was guilty of over-watering. I guess the concept of xeriscaping had not fully soaked in to my beady little brain. So, I started loving my roses less, watering less, and now I am the proud owner of a garden only the wealthy possess. Except, for some reason, after they have this kind of garden, they are still wealthy.

Kiosk Flying

Northwestern introduced "complete" kiosk ckeck-in in Memphis Tennessee International airport. It was a fiasco--to put it mildly. I asked for the non-kiosk check-in and the lady present said, "There are none." Yes, there was a person present. I presume that Northwestern believes at a time in the near future, the woman who pushed all the screens will no longer be needed because we will all learn how to check ourselves in.

Bad idea. First, there is a certain percentage of the population (count me as one) whose anxiety level shots through the roof when I see a touch screen method of getting my boarding pass and checking in my luggage. Now this kind lady saw that I had none of the things the kiosk called for so she asked me for a credit card. I gave her my "what do you take me for--a fool" look. I was not about to allow an airline that had gone through bankruptcy to have access to my credit card. Why they might charge a fill-up on one of their 747's. I gave her my library card. She said, "Mr Chancellor, I am glad to know you are a reader, but I need something with a magnetic strip on the back." I happily turned the card over and showed her the magnetic strip. We people in Abilene are right on the cutting edge of technology. It actually worked. And up came my reservation. She walked me through the process of checking in and out came boarding passes, bag slip and it was just like being waited on by a human. Oh, wait, I was being waited on by a human with a very expensive kiosk propping her up as she waited on me.

If Northwestern thinks that I will fly enough and fly Northwestern enough to remember how to check-in on their kiosk, they are crazy. The only thing I will remember is whatever needs to be done can be done with my library card.

I will confess that when I got home, I went to the library to see if 1,000 books had been checked out on my card. I have a really low level of trust when it comes to those magnificent men in their flying machines.

Supervise Your Luggage

If you travel anywhere these days and you start from the US, you will hear these words or something like them, "Federal Law requires all passengers to supervise their luggage. The alternative I have heard exchanges "supervise" with "control."

Now I am a good American and if Federal Law requires it, I will do my best to see that it is done. So, Anna and I have spent years trying to supervise/control our luggage. First, we sent our luggage to "luggage obedience school." We both were required to attend because one never knew when we would not fly as a couple. Then we had to take several supervised outings before we could be given a certificate showing our luggage and ourselves had passed obedience school.

Now, I travel with confidence because Anna and I both know how to control/supervise our luggage. I have actually added one little thing that was my own idea. I bring along a piece of chalk and outline where I put my luggage. This is important for controlling one's luggage, because while we are not watching, our luggage may shift or fall over. I will always know by the chalk dust on the outside of the bag. Smart huh! The offending bag is duly reprimanded usually in the bathroom because luggage has feelings too. I don't want to break the spirit of my luggage, I just want to gently discipline it so that we do not get in trouble over unruly bags.

The problem is I have this one duffel bag--black but highlighted in midnight blue, that constantly causes me problems. It is my favorite bag and when we have to travel internationally, it is the first one I reach for. The problem is, it is a little stinker, because it is good when with us, but at the precise moment it leaves our sight, and the airlines take over it is impossible to deal with. It takes off to destinations unknown, wrong planes, wrong cities, wrong countries. It is impossible to control or manage. It always, always ends up at our destination a few days late with the only explanation from the airlines, "the bag was delayed."

Now I know this is harsh, but I have put my favorite bag under the bed in the dark, until I can be promised it will not misbehave out of our presence. On this trip we took a trusted and tried old army duffel bag. No problem! It knows how to behave and has nary a chalk mark upon it.

If we all did our part, and did a more serious job of supervising our luggage, I am sure air travel would not be so expensive, or be so wearisome.