I’m bringing the weekly newsletter back.

It’s an idea I’ve been kicking around for a while, and the more I think about it, the more it snowballs in my mind. More than any other reason, I really miss doing it. It brought a lot of hope and encouragement to a lot of people. But the truth is, no one got more out of it than I did. It was a great way of growing my own faith, and in turn helping others do the same. And that’s something we all could use a little more of these days.

So if you enjoyed my weekly newsletter, now is the time to sign up for it again. It will go out every Friday, probably early in the morning. It will start probably next Friday, March 27th.

Each week you’ll receive an insightful note from written by yours truly, just like the good old days. These writings might take the form of spiritual devotions or encouragement, thoughts on writing, ruminations on shaping culture and living as a Roaring Lamb, or personal reflections from my own life. And of course, all the latest news about my books, and whatever else I’m working on lately.

In the past, you knew this weekly mailing as the Infuze Newsletter.

Now, it will be the Robin Parrish Newsletter.

Subscribe now! And please, help me get the word out! Tell your old Infuze friends, your family, your writer pals, post it on your blog, your favorite message boards, Facebook, MySpace, etc.

If you’re new to all this, here’s an example from a newsletter I wrote several years ago. It’s probably the note I got the most feedback about, ever. This is just one example of what you might expect from the new newsletter…

Close your eyes.

Picture this: You’re standing right in front of God, but you’re not there to stand in awe or offer praises.

You’re angry. Every suppressed question, fear, and doubt you’ve ever had is boiling to the surface, and you can’t hold them in anymore. You’re confused, disappointed, outraged, and nothing in life makes sense. You’re standing before the supreme being of the universe who created you and everything around you, but all you can think about is all the ways he’s let you down.

“Why do you allow bad things to happen, God? Can’t you prevent it? Don’t you have the ability?”

“Look at the world! How can you still be in control?”

“If you really care about me, why would you let this happen?!”

“Do you care about me at all??”

Bitter tears fall from your eyes. Blind to anything but your own pain, you are exhausted, desperate, writhing in contempt for life.

Finally, your tirade ends, and you have no strength left. You look up into the Father’s eyes, but instead you blink — there’s something you didn’t expect. Instead of the Father, you see his Son, naked and stretched out upon a wooden cross, and he’s bloodied, broken, bruised, and in every conceivable way, he’s undergoing the most terrifying agony imaginable.

Overwhelmed in that moment, you start to collapse, but at the last second something happens: Jesus’ arms break free from the cross and catch you. He embraces you completely, holding you in his strong arms to his scarred chest. And you hear him whisper through his own tears, “Oh my child… How I love you so.”

He says, “Open your eyes.”

You do, and you see that his arms have returned to the cross.

“Look at where I am,” he says, “and remember, this is how much I care about you.”