We are embarking on the last stretch of this voyage through the Great European Rivers (Danube, Main, Rhine). As I write, sailors are pulling away the ropes that tied us to Dock 9 in downtown Cologne. Our next port? Amsterdam.

By the time this essay lies before your eyes, this journey (like all trips) will be fading into a collage of memories. My daily routine will no longer revolve around 8:30 a.m. departures for tours through historic cities, but, rather, will be focused on packing school lunches, shuttling back and forth to ballet and Tae Kwondo, and facing that omnipresent quandary: what to make (and not burn) for dinner.

Without a doubt, I will heartily miss the team of folks you see pictured here—a glorious group hailing from Egypt, Switzerland, Poland, Italy, and Slovenia. From their charming demeanor, it is hard to fathom the behind-the-scene challenges such travel directors and ship crew face every tour. Keeping 100+ guests happy, healthy, and on time is no easy matter. Still, truth be told, it can be easier than achieving the same goals at home with a family.

For the moment, though, I am still here. I luxuriate at my cabin’s window, soaking in pale rays of late afternoon sunlight on this, our final day of river travel. Tomorrow morning, predawn, we will dock in Amsterdam and begin the day’s activities as varied as visiting the Rijksmuseum. a culinary tour through old Amsterdam (for those who can handle the libations on a morning tour), and a bike ride along the Dutch canals (those determined to pedal out despite the forecast of rain).

Tonight, though, while we sail, a jolly reception and celebratory dinner is planned to mark the formal farewell of the tour. Such ceremonies on ships are usually held on the penultimate evening of a cruise, since people get grumpy the actual last night while packing in anticipation of a 3:15 a.m. departure for the airport!

I’ve gotten used to such early schedules and do not mind them. Generally, I am more than ready to go home by the end a tour. But for the moment, I stare happily at the angry water of the Rhine, whipped by autumn rain and winds. White gulls speckle the space between our ship and the darkening shore. This could be the gulls’ favorite weather, if it stirs up their fishy suppers.

Most startling of all is how quickly the terrain has flattened out. Those grand mountains flanking the Middle Rhine Valley, braided with vineyards stretching up their sides and ornaments of medieval castles, lie a full day’s sailing behind us. Now, tidy stretches of Dutch-style houses are beginning to line the level shore. The more the horizon opens up, the more the light fills my cabin, despite a thick blanket of clouds.

How glad I am for this light. Light is my favorite aspect of life on this earth. Unlike my husband who looks forward to the setting sun and the tranquility of evening’s darkness, I crave the arrival of dawn. Still, whether a night owl or a morning bird, we are all drawn towards the light, be it the glow of a favored lamp or the piercing beams of a prairie sunrise. Our souls need light. From our first breath, light shapes our inner and outer patterns.

It is a small step from the force of physical light to the realm of spiritual light— light that illumines and casts out the real darkness of this world. The longer we live, strive, study, and learn, the more we see the power of spiritual light—at least on our better days when we are not mired in doubt and distress. This time of year, once November surprises us, can be a heavy time, not just because of difficult news shattering so much of the globe, but because we find ourselves, in our own realms, buried in a web of obligations. Ask any student sensing the onslaught of deadlines for long-term projects not yet begun. Ask teachers who wonder how to get through the rest of the syllabus without losing the spark that animates the classroom. Ask those sandwiched between the care of small children and aging parents, with demands on both ends spiraling out of control.

Then there are the daily burdens faced by real heroes of this world, starting with the ones who put the fields and orchards to bed for the winter or bring in the cattle. How does the inevitable arrival of winter feel to the intrepid workers manning oil rigs in impossible-to-imagine weather? What of those who prepare the power-company trucks for inevitable freezes and broken lines? The mere thought of what urgent care nurses, doctors, and overworked pharmacy staffs face right now takes my breath away. On a different note (no pun intended), a ray of light is needed for the phalanx of clergy, choir directors, and organists who press forward to prepare liturgy and music for the seasons ahead (Advent, Christmas). Their work is often unsung, despite bringing healing rays of light to an ever darker world.

Along the topic of upcoming liturgical events, I patted myself on the back today for remembering, at the last minute (an hour before we sailed out of Miltenberg), to pop into a store and buy lanterns for our family’s modest celebration of St. Martin’s Day on November 11th. We learned about this festival in Germany a decade ago and do our best to retain it in our domestic realm. No, we won’t have a cloaked, 4th-century Roman soldier aloft a fine steed to follow down our street while we tag behind, pressing our lanterns before us and giggling. Nor can we end up in a Renaissance town square with kiosks dispensing cider, cocoa, and sweets while we cluster together to sing songs about St. Martin of Tours. We’d have to be in Europe to enjoy all that.

But we will have inexpensive St. Martin’s Day paper lanterns with little LED lights dangling inside, hanging from the end of plastic rods—at least, if the rods don’t snap in my suitcase. We’ll begin the morning on YouTube, listening to sweet songs like “Ich geh’ mit meiner Laterne” (I go with my lantern), and we’ll try to sing them in half-German, half-English later that evening as we parade along our quiet street, knowing well that anyone glancing out the window will think we’ve lost track of the date for Halloween.

Button-sized LED lights for paper lanterns; vast light from the sinking sun on the Dutch Water Ways; the blessed light glowing from a corner of your kitchen or twinkling in the hallway to guard your children’s sleep: I wish each of you your most favored light in these waning weeks of a hard year. May lights of all kinds, particularly smiles and twinkling eyes, ease burdens, cut through the cold wind, and bring peace and renewed spiritual fuel for the road ahead.