In a modest building on the edge of town, something extraordinary happens every week. Families arrive. Children tag along. Bags are filled, shelves are restocked, and for a moment—sometimes the first in days—there’s relief. There’s hope. There’s dinner.

This is the Mount Olive Care Center, a community-run food pantry powered not by bureaucracy, but by heart. A trio of women—Nancy Hubert, Chris Ramseier, and Alice Arden—stand at its core, joined by dozens of volunteers, local donors, and a town that still believes neighbors should look out for each other.

Founded in 1985, the Care Center has served thousands over its nearly four decades. It grew from a small operation on Mill Street (lost to a tornado in 2012) into the current facility, purchased with the help of a generous local couple who sold the building for less than half its value. Today, they serve 80 to 110 families per month, amounting to nearly 300 individuals, many of whom return twice monthly as allowed.

But the real story isn’t the numbers—it’s the people behind them.

Nancy, who moved to the area in 1971, spent 31 years teaching in the Gillespie district before entering the ministry. She became director of the Care Center after retiring and recalls how deeply childhood poverty marked her own early years growing up in Pearl, Illinois. “People would come up from the river with no shoes,” she said. “My mother always gave them something.”

Chris, a lifelong Mount Olive resident and former volunteer with Meals on Wheels, joined the Center ten years ago after a lifetime of service, saying simply: “Giving back is just what I do.”

And Alice, who spent 35 years teaching in Mount Olive and Livingston, began volunteering after retirement, having already fed her students in the classroom for decades. “Kids came to school hungry,” she said. “So I kept food in my room. You can’t take a test on an empty stomach.”

Together, they’ve helped the Care Center grow into a multi-pronged operation. The Center now sources food from three main partners: Central Illinois Food Bank in Springfield, Midwest Food Bank in Peoria, and Operation Food Search in St. Louis. They purchase items at reduced rates—sometimes as low as 19 cents per pound—and pick up monthly truckloads with the help of dedicated volunteers and strict refrigeration protocols.

Beyond traditional food pantry services, the Center also runs the Kid Cafe, a summer program offering child-friendly meals designed for easy preparation—microwave mac and cheese, pop-top canned goods, cereal, and juice. Eighteen families are already signed up for this year’s program. “We want kids to be able to make food themselves,” Alice said. “Not every child has someone home to cook.”

Everything is done with discretion. Families visit the Center directly—no public distribution at the school, no exposure. “The only ones who know are the volunteers filling the bags,” said Chris.

The Center also operates without term limits on its board—just a shared agreement: serve until you're tired. “I’ve had the same title since my second year,” Chris smiled. “Nobody’s trying to climb a ladder. We’re just here to help.”

Their work is tireless. It’s often invisible. And it’s deeply rooted in the understanding that hunger is not a character flaw—it’s a condition.

“We don’t know what someone’s going through,” said Alice. “They might be elderly, isolated, or caring for someone. Or maybe they just didn’t earn enough to save. That’s not a sin.”

Even in the face of the occasional criticism—usually the tired old line about giving a man a fish versus teaching him to fish—Chris is clear: “Some people don’t have the tools. Or the pole. Or even the strength to stand up and cast.”

And while the food is important, what the Center really delivers is dignity. A soft place to land. A reminder that someone still sees you.

“Mount Olive isn’t a wealthy town,” Chris said. “But it’s a town that shows up.”

And in a time when so many people feel unseen, that might be the rarest gift of all.