By Tabitha Evans Moore | EDITOR & PUBLISHER
On any given weekday morning at Moore County High School, a little cart rolls into the lobby stocked with peanut butter crackers, granola bars, and pretzels. By second period, most of it will be gone. Students know the rules: take what you need, no questions asked. If the cart runs dry before lunch, that’s it for the day – but there’s always more where it came from. Down the hall, tucked inside a simple storage closet, sits a quiet project that has changed the way students experience school in our small Tennessee town.
It’s called the Snack Closet, and it’s the brainchild of Jennifer Ervin – a nurse, teacher’s aide, mother of three, cancer survivor, and Lynchburg local.
She lives in Lynchburg with her husband, Rodney, a local electrician, and three kids: Ruby and the twins, River and Rylee. All three attend Lynchburg Elementary.
Jennifer didn’t set out to build a program. What she wanted was simple: to make sure kids didn’t have to go hungry between breakfast and a late middle-school lunch. What she created instead was something bigger – a symbol of dignity and belonging in a place where needs sometimes go unseen.
A Closet Without Labels
Jennifer says the idea sparked years ago when she saw a Facebook post about a Texas classroom “store.” At the time, Moore County schools already had a partnership with Second Harvest that provided weekend food bags. But she couldn’t shake the thought of snacks being available every day, not just once a week.
She started with what she had – extra snacks, a bit of storage space, and the willingness to try. The local Farm Bureau office helped seed the effort with an annual donation. One local church promised a monthly check. Parents and community members began dropping off boxes of crackers and bottled water. Over time, the shelves grew from snacks to something much broader: deodorant, toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, socks, underwear, feminine hygiene products, even school supplies. If there was a need, she tried to fill it.
Today, the closet serves as a safety net for all students. The rules are simple. If you need it, take it. If you forgot it, fix it here.
“If you overslept and didn’t brush your teeth, you can fix that here,” Jennifer explained. “If you forgot deodorant, we’ve got you.”
The morning snack cart helps keep the system fair, preventing a few from hoarding and making sure everyone gets a chance. But the closet itself, managed day-to-day with help from Brenda Dye at the front desk, remains constant: a small but steady reminder that needs don’t define anyone.
“I really couldn’t do it without Mrs. Dye’s help because I’m in the classroom every day,” Jennifer says. “She keeps an eye on it for me and makes sure things get distributed properly.
The Helper Wiring
Jennifer’s official title is Licensed Practical Nurse. She’s the primary helper for a local special needs student named Andrea and has been for more than a decade. Andrea is a senior this year. Each day, she helps her with feeding tubes, mobility, daily living, and – perhaps most importantly –social belonging.
“I’ve always wanted to be a nurse,” Jennifer said. “Never anything else.”
She calls herself “a helper,” and the label fits. Long before the Snack Closet, long before cancer, long before her twins were born, she had a habit of showing up where someone needed her. She worked in assisted living before Ruby, her oldest, was born, but the hours were punishing. Eventually she left on-call home health, which had her driving hundreds of miles a week, and came to the school system. The pay was lower, but the tradeoff – a family-friendly schedule and meaningful work – was worth it.
“I think I’m just wired this way,” she shrugged. “That’s the nurse in me.”
Growing Up in Lynchburg
Jennifer didn’t always live in Moore County. Her family moved here when she was in fifth grade, settling into a house right on Main Street. The small-town setting was an instant fit.
“Growing up in town was perfect – we walked everywhere,” she recalled.
Her fondest memories are tied to community rhythms: barbecue weekend, when the smell of smoke lingered in the air and friends gathered in the park until midnight; birthday celebrations timed with the Tennessee–Alabama football rivalry; and Ervin family traditions like the “12 Days of Christmas” singalong.
“We promised Granny Ruby we’d keep the Ervin Christmas going – and we have,” she said.
That spirit carried over into her adult life with her husband Rodney. The two met in sixth grade, dated briefly, stayed friends, then reconnected junior year of high school. By Christmas break in 2000, they were inseparable.
Now, their house is often full-on Saturdays, especially during football season. Kids running in and out, adults crowding around the television, food on the stove – the Ervin home is the kind of place people know they can stop by and be welcomed.
“Arms-wide-open” is how Jennifer describes it. “That’s how my mama taught me to be.”
Weathering Storms
That openness, though, is grounded in hard-won resilience. In 2011, Jennifer was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. The news came in the middle of fertility struggles, and she was forced to have her thyroid removed.
The period that followed – before her hormone replacement was stabilized – was brutal. Exhaustion, mood swings, mental fog.
“I wish high school me hadn’t cared so much what people thought,” Jennifer said. “But cancer taught me: you lose it, and then you get back up.”
Friends and family rallied around her. They brought food. They showed up. They let her cry, and then they reminded her she wasn’t alone.
Today, she insists her instinct to help was there before the cancer but surviving it added a layer of gratitude. She doesn’t just stock snacks. She stocks dignity, because she knows what it feels like when someone shows up at the right time.
Life Lessons
In recent years, Jennifer has learned to accept herself fully — “a lot,” as she calls it — and to embrace what she needs to stay balanced.
Between twin, River and Riley, Ruby’s sports schedule, her work at school, and the demands of community life, she had to find ways to recharge. Sometimes that means a quiet car ride. Sometimes it’s a walk. Always, it’s at least 30 minutes alone.
“Thirty minutes, and I can reset,” she said. “Rodney protects that space for me.”
It’s a small ritual, but like the closet, it’s built on the idea that basics matter.
Belonging in Moore County
Jennifer’s advice to newcomers is simple: show up. Go to Friday-night football. Attend a Square event. Participate in community life.
“It’s how you find your people,” she explained.
At school, she tries to model the same ethos. The Snack Closet isn’t just about snacks. It’s about lowering barriers. A tube of toothpaste can mean confidence. A granola bar can mean focus. A new pair of socks can mean dignity.
Her work – in the classroom, in the closet, in her own home – reflects the same throughline: in Lynchburg, belonging isn’t about where you’re from. It’s about whether you’re willing to show up for each other.
The Last Word
On fall Saturdays, you’ll still find Jennifer’s house full – kids underfoot, the game on TV, laughter spilling from the kitchen. By Monday morning, the cart is rolled out again in the school lobby, filled with snacks for whoever needs them.
The two scenes may look different, but they’re really the same. Open door. Open heart.
And Jennifer Ervin wouldn’t have it any other way.
If you or your organization would like to contribute to the MCHS Snack Closet with a monetary or in kind donation, reach out to Jennifer Ervin at jenniferervin75@gmail.com or Brenda Dye at 931-759-4231.•
{Humans of Lynchburg is an ongoing Lynchburg Times series dedicated to sharing the stories of the people who make this place special. Our goal is to eventually interview the whole town. Why? Becasue the more voices we hear, the better we understand each other – and the stronger our community becomes. If you’d like to nominate someone for an interview, reach out to our editor at editor@lynchburg-times.com.}