I saw a story about an eight-year-old boy and his dad on TV yesterday. The program was all about cultivating a good hobby with your child. Anyway, the dad had taught his son how to "catch and release" fish after he caught one.
It was hard for the boy to do, because the fish he had caught was a big walleye. After some consideration of what his dad had taught him, he released the big walleye after stroking its belly to make sure it was okay to swim away.
It brought tears to my eyes because one time, while out fishing with Grandpa, I witnessed Jordan releasing this big walleye and stroking its belly like Grandpa had taught him to. 
I asked him what he was doing, and he very carefully explained. He said she was a female fish and he could feel the eggs in her belly. 
The gentleness he exhibited with the fish was "touching!" 
​-Danielle Stevens, Jordan's Grandma

​It's no secret: I've always struggled with self-confidence.
Depression and anxiety have been my best friends for just about as long as I can remember. I always felt horrible that these burdens weren't only my own to carry - they were my family's. That included Jordan.
I'll never really know exactly how much he knew about my secret struggles with depression, but sometimes, I think it's more than I would ever expect. There were times he would barge into my room randomly, only to turn and leave after seeing I was okay. There were times he would drag me along on what were (to me, anyway) incredibly boring fishing trips in the guise of having an extra person along so he could fish with multiple lines.
But one of the most obvious things he ever did to show how much he cared happened the summer before he passed away. We were down in the living room. I was sitting on the couch and watching him play on the Wii.
I don't remember exactly what he was playing. It may have been Wii Baseball or something. I guess it hardly matters.
Anyway, he was focused on the screen and he made some comment that struck me as cocky. He did that sometimes - pretended to be more confident than I think he was. He had a charming air of bravado he would take up, maybe to make his family (or himself) feel safe.
I said, "You have too big of an ego."
In response, he said, "And yours is too small. But that's okay, you can have some of mine."
I get that it doesn't seem like a lot, especially if you didn't know him like I did. But my brother wasn't one for mushy diatribes and bonding moments. He wasn't the type of guy to sit there and tell me how much he loved me. I simply accepted that he did love me, whether or not he ever told me.
But that day was, I think, the closest he ever came to spelling it out for me. I took it to mean he saw my struggles and my self-loathing, and he cared enough to share his confidence with me if I couldn't have my own confidence.
To this day, I still fight the same inner demons that wear the masks of depression and anxiety. But one of the things that keeps me going is that distant memory of my brother sharing some of his confidence with me. I know, if he could actually transfer a sense of peace and confidence to me, he wouldn't hesitate to do so - even if it meant diminishing his own.
If that isn't love, I don't know what is.
-Amanda J Tucker