One morning last month, I arrived at London's Heathrow Airport at 5 A.M. to check in for an early flight. I was physically tired and emotionally spent from several days of giving lectures and sermons. The woman at the ticket counter hardly looked up as she asked where I was going and how many bags I'd be checking.

"I'm headed for Boston," I said, "and I'm not checking anything."

For the first time she looked up and over the counter at my well-worn Brookstone roller bag (advertised to conform to FAA specifications for carry-on luggage) and said, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to check that."

My amygdala (the fear-sensor in the brain) immediately awoke, prompting memories of misplaced luggage and long waits at baggage-claim in Boston. I said (trying to be calm) that I didn't want to check my bag, that I'd carried it with me on the flight over to the UK a few days before, and I carry this particular bag on flights all the time.

The woman replied rather bureaucratically: "I'm telling you that they're ...