Matthew 19:1-6

A smile heightens over the painter's face; the brushes waver in shaking hands as the excitement pulses through his entire being. The brushes splash in oily drops of paint, then throw themselves against the canvas. Hours pass, the day wanes, night begins to creep through the large bay windows, crimson moonlight dancing over the rough yet exuberant contours of the aged painter. The once-blank canvas has become a masterpiece, evolving from manilla parchment to a landscape of waterfalls and canyons, mountains and valleys, rivers and oceans, teeming with wildlife, a sparkling sun the radiant backdrop. He leans back in his chair, lets out a sigh, admires his work, his own creation.

The door to the room bursts open and a man rushes in. The painter jumps up, spilling his paint all over the cobblestone floor, and he cries out, but to no avail: the intruder grabs the drying parchment, gives out a sinister laugh, mockery of everything pure and right and noble and true, and rips the painting, right down the middle. He does not stop there. He tosses it to the floor, douses it with gasoline, and the painter, now bound in chains, is forced to watch as his painting ignites, smolders, and becomes ashes and dying embers. The man laughs and exits, his mockery bouncing over the rock walls of the pristine garden. The painter rolls into a fetal ball and cries.

This is the handiwork of divorce.