Samuel. A man

There’s a certain kind of man I didn’t know I was missing until I met him in a book.

Samuel Hamilton. A farmer with rough hands and a bright mind, tucked into the corners of East of Eden. He wasn’t the main character—not by the end—but he stayed with me. The way good men do. Quietly. Without asking for attention. Just showing up, over and over again, with honesty and love and work.

He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t powerful. He didn’t win anything. And still—he felt like the kind of man I want to be.

I've been thinking about him a lot lately.

Not just because I'm raising boys, though that’s part of it. Not just because I’m a divorced dad trying to find my footing again, though that’s part of it too. Mostly, I think, because I’m tired of feeling like being a man means chasing something I don’t want to catch. Money. Status. Control. The world tells us these are the measures. But Samuel’s measure was different.

He gave what he had. He listened more than he spoke. He laughed deeply, especially when things were hard. He carried sorrow without bitterness. And when he prayed, it wasn’t to be spared from trouble—but to have the strength to face it well.

That’s the kind of man I want to be.

The kind that builds, even if it’s only with his hands. The kind that loves without needing to possess. The kind that tells the truth, even when no one’s asking.

There’s a scene in East of Eden where Samuel is talking with Adam Trask—a man twisted up in grief. And Samuel, rather than rush him past it, walks him through it. He doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t quote scripture or give a speech. He just sits with him. A lantern in a dark room. Not making the pain go away, but making sure the man doesn’t walk through it alone.

I think that’s the kind of strength I admire most. The quiet kind. The kind that listens. That stays. That doesn’t flinch.

The older I get, the more I realize I don’t want to be the hero of anyone’s story. I just want to be useful. Steady. The one who shows up with a wrench or a joke or a cup of coffee when it’s needed. The one who still believes, despite the brokenness of things, that people can be good.

Samuel believed that. Not blindly. He saw the cruelty of the world, too. He just didn’t let it harden him.

There’s a passage in the book where Steinbeck writes about the greatness of Samuel’s soul, and how it went unnoticed by most. And I remember closing the book, sitting with that line, thinking: maybe that’s what greatness actually looks like. Not being seen. But being true.

So when I ask myself—can I be the kind of man I read about?—the honest answer is: I don’t know. Not all the time. But I can try.

I can slow down. I can listen better. I can choose love when anger feels easier. I can keep my word. I can teach my sons not just to be strong—but to be kind, especially when the world tells them otherwise.

And when they ask what kind of man I admire, I can tell them about Samuel. A man with no fortune, no medals, no spotlight. Just a good heart, a steady hand, and a belief in goodness that didn’t need permission to exist.

There are worse legacies to leave behind.

And maybe, if I keep trying, I’ll become a small echo of him. Not a perfect man. But a faithful one.

A man worth remembering.