I would say a huge part of the world and learning to live in it is remembering that every time a nuclear bomb goes off, there are really lovely sunsets. Assuming you live through it, and assuming you do your best to keep it from happening again, there's nothing wrong with noticing that. Your life is a book being slowly written, and if we've learned anything from Miss Jeanette and Amy Burley, it's that you can't tear pages out of it. You can only treasure them, learn to incorporate them as part of a book that you love. They'll never be just words on a page, of course, but eventually they can stop being your prison. All stories are worthwhile, just as all lives are worthwhile: but it's our duty to find the worth, and to live it as best we can. All stories change us, and ignoring even a tiny bit of the ones flashing by every second of the day is a price you might be called one day to pay. All signs are vital: we can't disregard them. There is a space in the world for beauty. Let there be light.
"And God said, Let there be light," says young Newlin, standing at the pulpit of his father's Church, carrying on his work, in God's name. To love thine enemy unto ash and dust. "And there was light. And even though we stand in darkness today, we shall not fear, for God has given us the ultimate weapon. The ultimate salvation!" Two words for the same thing. He points behind him, to the light pouring down through stained glass, as the congregation calls and responds, filled with the holy light of love. "The sun! And he has placed in front of us a daunting but righteous task." The camera pans across the crowd, their lit up, beautiful faces, the sunlight pouring down on them, washing them clean, and inevitably rests on Jason Stackhouse, cleaned up and nodding, in his Sunday shirt. "We will not falter. We will not rest." NO! they scream, dressed in their finest; in the breastplate and the armor and the righteousness of God. "Until we have brought God's holy light down on each and every bloodsucking abomination!" There are cheers, and whistles, and Jason jumps to his feet, dancing in the light, nearly weeping with the beauty, shouting it out: "Amen! Praise Jesus!" Young Newlin smiles, terrifying and empty, insane and lit with glory; Jason kisses Mr. Dawson on his head, so full of love and light that he must let it out. So full of a new story.
Tara tells Andy he's cut off, but Andy's still stuck on the glory that was stolen from him, again and again, the heir of nothing he knows yet. "My family used to own this whole damn town," he bitches blearily. "The land this rathole stands on included!" Tara reminds him he no longer owns the rathole, and tells him she's cutting him off. "Join the club." She listens. She remembers what it felt like, falling. "One minute you're a hero, the next you can't get a fuckin' drink." Tara feels wise and expansive and loving; her newfound freedom is like V, she can see what links her to him, and it gives her the abundance of compassion. "I ain't never seen a bird fly so high it don't have to come down sometime," she says, more beautiful than she's ever been I think. He licks his lips, insensate, drowning in sorrow for a thing he can't name. She's wearing a lovely printed dress; the satin plum stripes match her eyeshadow. She's as intimidatingly beautiful as Maryann now. She sticks out in Bon Temps. She's lit from within.