What happens when we outgrow the doctrine that forged us, and was once our lifeforce, as crucial to our survival as the air we breathe? When we must lift the pure white vestment from our shoulders and pack it away in a forgotten place, because the weight of an imperfect faith is too much to bear, but all we can offer in this chaotic modern world? Pluck, by Adam Hughes, is a tether through the darkness to those of us who have shared in sleepless nights spent kneeling on the hard floor of a dark room, beseeching a god with ever-watchful eyes and asking him for a tendril of reprieve from the unyielding wrestling of our souls.
With a masterful blend of lyrical poetry and intermittent recollections of his life, Hughes tells us the story of the slow wane of his faith, and his ardent, yet conflicted attempts to stoke the fire that once burned feverishly. Doubt, guilt, and distractions all present tangible obstacles to reigniting his faith, which has cooled to embers, leaving Hughes conflicted, having “...too much belief to not believe and not enough belief to believe” (Hughes, 94).
As someone who also grew up in the church and has since become estranged from my faith, Hughes spoke to a part of my soul that few have touched. The moments he spends wrestling with his faith are visceral, raw, and deeply human—moments I have shared in and empathize with. To reference Rigoberto González’s review of this poetry collection, Pluck addresses the divine at eye level, providing us with a glimmer of hope that perhaps we’re closest to divinity in our darkest moments. Maybe, when we finish the grueling trek along this infinite rocky shore, we will look back and see two sets of footprints instead of one.
The truth of this world—whether you’re religious or not—is that sometimes all we can offer is ourselves, raw and imperfect, yet deserving of love all the same. God is not always found in chapels with sparkling floors and routine church-goers with their neatly-pressed Sunday clothes. He is found in the tormented, the weak, and the desperate. The weakest faith is the one that is easily maintained, and the one that withstands the uncertainty of life is the one tempered with steel.
Hannah Kailburn is a recent graduate of SUNY Plattsburgh, where she earned her bachelor’s degree in English Literature and received awards for her writing. You can find her poetry published in North Star Magazine. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys hiking, skiing, and getting lost in fantasy novels.
