National Recovery Month: Kenny's Story

His Name Was Kenny

To understand Kenny’s story, you first need to understand where we came from.

My brother Kenny and I grew up in a poor part of central Kentucky. We had an amazing mom and dad who loved us and did the very best they could with the hand life had dealt them. But life was hard. My dad dropped out of school in the seventh grade and was a multiple amputee, yet somehow still worked around 50 hours a week, bringing home roughly $125/wk. My mom lived with schizophrenia and relied on disability.

We were dirt poor, and I don’t just mean that figuratively. Our house was filled with broken things and broken dreams. There were holes in the floors large enough for animals to get inside. Roaches infested the house. There were nights without electricity, nights without running water, and far too many nights without food. Sometimes, when we did have food, we would literally pick the roaches out of it and eat anyway because the alternative was going hungry.

As terrible as that sounds now, as kids, it was simply normal. It was our life.

And yet, somehow, there was still laughter in that house. There was still joy. And one of the people who brought the most of it was Kenny.

Kenny was funny. He was incredibly smart. He could light up a room. He was my brother, but he was also my best friend. He was the kind of kid who could have been anything.

Two Brothers, Two Different Roads

In the summer of 2000, when I was 14 years old, I found Jesus. My life began moving in one direction, while Kenny’s began moving in another.

He started spending more time on the streets and sleeping couch to couch at friends’ houses. At a young age, drinking entered the picture. Then smoking. Then drugs. At first, they seemed small — a hit here, a drink there, something to take the edge off, something to forget for a while.

But addiction rarely announces what it intends to steal. It simply asks for a little more, and then a little more.

Looking back, I believe Kenny was trying to numb things he didn’t know how to carry — hurt, shame, fear, disappointment, and the painful distance between the life a little boy dreamed about and the life he actually experienced.

Eventually, the drugs became harder. Meth. Crack. Heroin.

Slowly, the young man who once bounced from couch to couch began bouncing between streets, jail cells, treatment programs, halfway houses, and wherever he could survive while chasing the next high. Addiction was taking my brother from us piece by piece.

But even then, Kenny wasn’t beyond the reach of God.

There were seasons when people understandably had to create distance from him, but a few of us remained, and we kept pointing him toward Jesus. I remember countless phone calls with my brother where we talked about God. Kenny believed in God. He loved Jesus. He would call me from jail or a halfway house and tell me what he had been reading in Scripture. We would talk about what God was teaching him and about the possibility that his life could still be different.

Behind the addiction, I could still hear my brother. Behind the drugs, I could still catch glimpses of my best friend.

I knew he was still in there, and I desperately wanted him back.

“Come to Minnesota.”

After our mom passed away in 2020, I began talking with Kenny more seriously about Minnesota Adult & Teen Challenge.

I had seen stories coming out of this organization that were difficult to ignore — men and women walking out of addiction, families being restored, people rediscovering purpose, and lives being transformed spiritually, emotionally, and physically. Minnesota Adult & Teen Challenge exists to help men, women, and teens gain freedom from addiction and other life-controlling problems by addressing physical, emotional, and spiritual needs.

What moved me most wasn’t simply the idea of treatment. It was the hope.

In 2024, Minnesota Adult & Teen Challenge reported serving more than 4,000 people. Their published outcomes also show that 80% of surveyed graduates from their Long-Term program reported sobriety after graduation. That same year, hundreds of people were baptized or made first-time commitments to Christ.

Those aren’t just statistics.

They are sons coming home. Daughters being restored. Moms rebuilding relationships with their children. Dads becoming fathers again. Brothers becoming brothers again. Families receiving phone calls they once feared would never come.

I wanted Kenny to become one of those stories.

I told him to come to Minnesota. I told him I would get him here. I would help him. I would pay for treatment if I needed to. Whatever it took.

My dream was simple: I wanted my brother back. I wanted to see that kid who was full of joy again. I wanted my best friend back.

But Kenny told me he didn’t want to be a burden. He didn’t want to burden me, my wife, or our kids. Ultimately, he decided he could beat addiction on his own.

March 28, 2021

On March 28, 2021, at 8:22 in the morning, I was driving north on Snelling Avenue in Roseville, Minnesota, when my phone rang.

The caller ID said Jefferson County Coroner’s Office.

Kenny had been missing for about two weeks. For him, disappearing wasn’t completely unusual, but something inside me already knew.

I answered the phone.

The person on the other end asked, “Is this Andrew Meade?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know a Kenneth Meade?”

“Yes.”

Then came the question I will never forget.

“Does Kenneth have any markings on his body that could help us identify him?”

Everything stopped.

A couple of seconds felt like an eternity.

Finally, I answered. “He has a cross tattooed on the left side of his chest, and he has an inmate number tattooed on the back of his right shoulder.”

There was a pause.

Then the gentleman calmly said the words that changed my life:

“I’m sorry to inform you, but we found Kenneth this morning underneath a bridge in downtown Louisville.”

Kenny had died from a fentanyl overdose.

My brother was gone.

A Different Kind of Grief

By that point in my life, I knew grief. I had buried my dad. I had buried my mom. But losing Kenny was different because alongside the grief was this overwhelming sense of what could have been.

I wasn’t only mourning the man who died underneath that bridge. I was mourning the little boy who used to laugh with me. I was mourning the teenager who was smarter than he realized. I was mourning my best friend. I was mourning birthdays that would never come, conversations we would never have, and a future he would never experience.

Addiction had wrapped chains around his life so tightly that, in the end, he couldn’t break them by himself.

And that is why I am writing this.

Not because Kenny’s story ended underneath a bridge, but because I don’t believe his story ended there at all.

“Watch and See How Many Kennys I Save.”

Years later, as we were building Elo Coffee Co., I felt the Lord speak something to my heart in June that I have not been able to shake:

“Watch and see. Watch and see how many Kennys I save.”

That changed something in me because suddenly Elo wasn’t only about coffee. It wasn’t only about building a company or creating a great product. Maybe God could take something that brought our family so much pain and somehow use it to help write a different ending for another family.

Maybe Kenny’s story could help save someone else’s brother. Someone else’s daughter. Someone else’s dad. Someone else’s best friend.

Kenny died on March 28, 2021, but I believe his legacy is still being written. I believe he will be part of many stories told through Elo Coffee Co.

“Let Me Be Your Fix.”

About a year after Kenny died, I had a dream that has stayed with me ever since.

In the dream, I was sitting on a bench watching people enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Then, out of nowhere, I saw Kenny. As he came closer, I saw Jesus. Jesus opened His arms, looked Kenny directly in the eyes, and said:

“Let Me be your fix.”

And Kenny ran into the arms of Jesus.

I woke up overwhelmed.

Addiction had spent years telling my brother that one more hit, one more drink, or one more high could make the pain disappear. But I believe the deepest longing in every human heart cannot ultimately be satisfied by another substance, another escape, or another temporary fix.

I believe that hope is found in Jesus.

To God be the glory.

Why We’re Giving 20% This September

September is National Recovery Month, a month dedicated to celebrating recovery, supporting treatment, and honoring the people and organizations helping individuals rebuild their lives.

For Elo Coffee Co., this isn’t simply another awareness month.

It’s personal.

It has a name.

Kenny.

That is why throughout September, we are doubling our normal giveback and giving 20% of our profits to Minnesota Adult & Teen Challenge.

We want to help them continue doing what they do every single day: helping people break free from addiction, restoring families, providing treatment, creating safe places to heal, walking beside men and women who may not believe they can take another step, and pointing people toward lasting hope.

Because somewhere today, there is another Kenny. There is another person convinced they can beat this on their own. Another person who thinks they are too far gone. Another person who doesn’t want to burden their family. Another family staring at a silent phone hoping it rings. Another brother praying the next call isn’t from a coroner.

And maybe, together, we can help change how that story ends.

Who Is Your Kenny?

That is the question I want to leave you with.

Who is your Kenny?

Maybe it is your son or daughter. Maybe it is a brother or sister. A mom. A dad. A spouse. A childhood friend. Maybe they are in recovery today. Maybe they are still fighting. Maybe, like Kenny, they are no longer here.

Their story matters.

I would be honored to hear it.

If you would like to tell me about your Kenny, email me personally at Andrew.meade@elocoffeeco.com. Tell me their name. Tell me who they were before addiction tried to define them. Tell me what you are praying for.

Because this month, every bag of Elo Coffee represents something bigger than coffee.

It represents another opportunity for someone to hear that they don’t have to fight this alone. Another opportunity for chains to break. Another opportunity for a family to be restored.

Another opportunity for another Kenny to come home.

And we’re going to keep watching and seeing what God does.

For Kenny. For every family still waiting. For every person still fighting. And ultimately, for the glory of God.