Author Archives: Laura Lindblom

Ranch Wife Musings | Choose Wisely

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on Feb. 25, 2026

We bought bulls recently, part of the yearly refresh on the bull herd, to replace those culled due to age, injury, or lack of get-er-done-ness (technical terminology). Purchasing bulls is one of those yearly high-stakes decisions – costly, and with potential significant cascading effects. A bull with good temperament and genetics leaves a good lasting effect on the cowherd over time. A bull with poor temperament and genetic defects can have a poor lasting effect. So it is a decision that is approached carefully, and the bulls are chosen with intentionality and wisdom.

But quality bulls and that associated cost are only a part of the equation when it comes to the long-term thriving of the herd. A million smaller decisions have arguably a greater impact, as important as it is to maintain a quality bull herd. Nutritional inputs, whether it is good feed, healthy pastures, or appropriate mineral supplementation, play a huge role in the health of the cows and, consequently, the health of the babies, and we will see that in spades over the next weeks and months as we wade into calving season. How far they have to walk to water, how rocky the pastures are, how the cattle are handled, just to name a few examples, can affect their demeanor, their stress levels, can cause injury or physical breakdown, and I could go on. The little decisions, cumulatively, over time, aren’t so little after all.

There are a handful of decisions that most people make in the course of their lives that are understood to have long-ranging effects – college, career path, employment, spouse, where to live, things that will have some impact on everything downstream. We approach those big decisions with gravity, and not a little trepidation much of the time.

But I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we approached our little decisions with the same gravity. We may only make a half dozen big decisions in the course of our life, but we make countless little decisions. Might the million little decisions, cumulatively, not have as big – or bigger? – of an impact than the half dozen weightier ones? Might the management of our daily energy expenditures have, cumulatively, as great an influence as those high-stakes ones? 

Everything we do requires energy expenditure of some kind and will have some effect on our health – physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually, or the health of our family and those closest to us. Work costs energy, obviously, whether it is the kind of work that results in a paycheck or the kind of work that keeps a house running smoothly. Recreation takes energy, both immediately but also often tapping past efforts in the form of money spent. Mindlessly scrolling social media costs time and energy, giving nothing in return. Sharp words are thieves of the energy that could go towards building a marriage or relationship. Kindness often takes energy but is life giving to both the giver and the receiver. Even the act of resting requires an input, in a way, and in certain situations can almost feel like work.

So many times over the last 4 months, I’ve been faced with choices that ultimately are a question of short-term versus long-term benefits. For instance, the choice between setting my sleeping infant down while she sleeps so I can get something done, or continuing to hold her because that’s what she needs, and cherish the time. I’ve been faced with the choice to rock her to sleep and savor being needed, or let her cry it out and learn to “self-soothe” and sleep on her own faster. I’ve been faced with whether to hand her off to someone else so I can do X, Y, or Z, or be content with less productivity with her close by knowing that this season is short. I’ll let you guess which I have chosen in each of those situations.

Sometimes I feel the need to apologize for or justify my lack of things accomplished in a day. Sometimes I wonder what it would have taken to have “bounced back,” to look just like I did before or accomplish the same to-do list or not sacrificed some income. But then I think of where my energy has gone, and what downstream impact there might be for a child who has been nurtured and cherished and given as much of a sense of love and belonging and safety as I can give. And I can tell you something certain: I haven’t regretted a moment holding her. I haven’t regretted a single morning snuggle to soothe her back to sleep or the cold coffee that I come back to afterwards. I haven’t regretted rocking her and wearing her and carrying her everywhere, even if it means a little less of what some might consider “productivity,” or having to sit on the sidelines for some things. Because in each of those instances, one of those choices would have longer-reaching impact than the other.

A spotless floor or crumb-free countertops or an always-empty sink demand time and effort, and only last for so long. I doubt I’ll ever wish I’d redirected my energy expenditures and set my baby down more often so I could wash the dishes more faithfully. I doubt I’ll ever regret the less-thorough job vacuuming the house because I was hampered by wearing my baby. I doubt I’ll ever regret setting some personal projects aside in favor of nurturing this new endeavor.

And how many choices like that we are faced with, day to day!

Whether to speak impatiently or with forbearance to a spouse or a child? Choose wisely.

Whether to flounder in your failures or give thanks for God’s grace? Choose wisely.

Whether to rehearse your spouse’s shortcomings or rejoice over their successes? Choose wisely.

Whether to respond eagerly or with reluctance to meet the needs of your child? Choose wisely.

How to spend the cumulative hours made up of spare minutes of the day? Choose wisely.

Whether to pick up a book or pick up your phone? Choose wisely.

Whether to doom scroll the misery plaguing our world, or fill your mind with good things? Choose wisely.

Whether to wallow in the mire of the evil that is done upon the most vulnerable, or pour out your energy in protecting your most vulnerable? Choose wisely.

God only gives us so much time – Each day, and in our life. Every day we live is one day less that we have left. Every ounce of energy spent is one less ounce we have to spend between now and eternity. How will you spend that time? How will you expend that energy? It goes somewhere. Every choice we make demands certain inputs. Might we choose those things that have the best lasting effects, the greatest impact for good, and are the best stewardship of the time we’ve been given. May we choose wisely.

Ranch Wife Musings | No One Warned Me

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on 1-28-26

No one ever warned me about this part. It is a part of marriage I never really pictured, didn’t think much about, and for sure no one warned me about. The glow of lamplight in the dark before the sun has come up, when the horizon is just a thread of red in the distance. The steam rising from a hot cup of coffee, and my husband sitting next to me on the sofa. The companionable silence or soft conversation, finishing waking up, sometimes Brad reading aloud from a western memoir, or doing our morning Bible reading together. Sometimes I pick up my crocheting for a few minutes before Little Miss Felicity needs me. These mornings are sweet, and they’re a part of life I never really imagined. The pleasant mundane, the companionship, the not-alone-ness of what it means to be in a faithful marriage. No one ever warned me about this part.

Then the day begins, Brad off to do chores with a parting peck on the cheek and an “I love you”, and for me a daily blur of nursing and diaper changes and naps, on repeat. Somewhere in there is housework, and baking, and writing, and some piano teaching and the occasional morning working cows, and starting to get the garden planned. Little Miss Felicity is no longer a newborn, her little personality starting to bubble up, and it is a delight to watch her discover the world around her. First it was her fists, and she’d stare at them cross-eyed, not sure what to do with them or how to control them. Then it was her voice, and she has been perfecting her repertoire of baby noises and babbling. Then it was her tongue, and she sits with her little tongue poking out, trying to babble around it, sometimes just blowing bubbles, and it melts this mama’s heart every time. There’s a lot of laughter in our house these days.

No one ever warned me about the laughter, or how sweet it would be. No one warned me how many times in a day my heart would melt. No one warned me how fulfilling it is to be needed so deeply. Oh, I heard plenty of warnings, plenty of “just wait untils,” but no one ever warned me how good it was. How good it could be. How good it would get.

“Just wait.” I can’t recall ever hearing that phrase relating to a work pursuit or a hobby, a volunteer endeavor or recreation of any kind. Who in the world ever sees professional enthusiasm or excitement dashes it with the cold water of “Just wait”?  

“Just wait until reality sets in and you realize you’re replaceable at your job!” “Just wait until you’ve been a part of _____ for a few years and realize it is the same as any other organization!” “Just wait until you’re taken for granted by your boss!” “Just wait until your job just becomes a job!” “Just wait!”

We don’t do that. No one does that.

But the “just waits” that flow freely and abundantly and reflexively?   

“Just wait until the honeymoon phase is over!”

“You think you’re tired now? Just wait until you have a newborn!”

“You’d better do ____ now, because you’ll never have any time once the baby gets here!”

“Enjoy feeling good now, because it’s the last time you’ll feel good for another 18 years!”

“Juuuuust wait.”

Hidden behind every “just wait…” is the not-so-subtle insinuation that hard is bad. That uncertainty is bad. That struggle is bad. That change is bad. That’s it’s all downhill from here, sadly, unfortunately, I hope you’re ready for it but I know you’re not!

To be fair, some of those “just waits” are said with little bent of humor, but generally speaking our humor betrays the tilt of our opinions, and we also tend to find what we are primed to see. When I hear numbers about the high divorce rate, the declining marriage rate, and the plummeting birth rate, I can’t help but wonder…what would happen if we talked more about the good stuff? If we primed ourselves and others to look for the best instead of anticipating the worst? Would fewer young people settle, if we talked about how good marriage could be? Would fewer couples throw in the towel if they knew there was hope on the other side of the hard? Would fewer young people put off the joy of having children for the sake of career, only to realize too late that they waited too long? Because on the other side of a struggle, there is growth and strength and peace and the richest of hindsights.

What if we saw the fire of young love and said, “Just wait until the sweet frenzy of honeymoon emotions settles into a state of wonderful steadiness and peace. It is even more amazing.”

That is a “just wait” that gives hope and reinforces joy. And joy multiplies. Hope propels. And the good truly can and does get even better.

Just wait until you wake up next to your spouse for the 100th time, or the 1000th time, and realize you almost can’t remember what it was like to wake up alone.

Just wait until you work through this struggle or that struggle and find your marriage is even stronger.

Just wait until the pregnancy aches and pains disappear miraculously after the baby is born, every single one of them.

Just wait until the sleepless nights fade gently into better sleep and you feel human again.

Just wait until you look down into the gazing eyes of an infant and you realize you’re her whole world.

Just wait until the moment she fusses and you know exactly what it is she needs, and you can respond smiling instead of stressing.  

Just wait until your heart melts watching your husband fall in love with his baby.

Just wait until you smile at your husband across the corrals and he flashes a smile back, working cows with your baby snugged to your chest.

Just wait until you are nap trapped in the rocking chair, with a cup of tea and a favorite book. It’s a pretty sweet gig.

No one warned me about all of that.

Let it Snow

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Originally printed in the Jan/Feb 2026 issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

In the dreary midwinter months, I can’t ever quite put my finger on it, on what makes it so special, but there is something about a snowfall day that feels like a holiday. Having left the brightness of December behind, the series of festivities that leave the heart merry, January and February can stretch on eternally into an expansive dreariness, hard on the eyes and heavy on the heart. But at the first light sight of a fresh, heavy snow sifting down, gently swirling in a lightening sky, something in me lightens as well.

Yes, there can be the dreaded storms that are termed “calf killers,” particularly in March and April (which also happen to be the storms that fill dams, and ready the ground for growing grass, and do a world of good on a ranch), and there can be the similarly deadly or just plain miserable cold snaps, where temperatures plummet for days or weeks on end.

But then there are those midwinter storms, with the grey, heavy sky, clouds seeming to rest in the tops of the trees, and the million flakes tumbling, floating, whirling earth-ward, like downy feathers or falling stars, without wind, with a friendly sort of cold. The settling peace is almost overwhelming, the whiteness dazzling, as a transformation happens to the dreary, midwinter world.

Maybe it is simply the welcome interruption to the daily, winter routine – From dusting the vehicles off to shoveling the deck to stomping a trail down to the barnyard to do chores, snow creates an interruption, and jars us out of routine.

Maybe it is the complete and utter transformation of a bleak midwinterscape – Brown hillsides are beautified, with snow to soften the contours; dirty corrals and calving lot are made momentarily clean, with snow to keep the dust down; barren branches of oaks and cottonwoods, piled with snow to hide their barrenness – All is made gentler, softer by a fresh layer of gleaming white.

Maybe it is the heightened awareness of the otherwise invisible – Winding ribbons of a deer trail that appear in that first dusting; drab little birds dipping and diving around the feeder, feathered acrobats that normally fade into a weary, winter backdrop; the tiniest trails of tracks in the snow, from clump of grass to stump to rockpile, evidence of the invisible lives of field mice and rabbits and other mundane critters; bright blue of a jay, cheerful against the white; shreds of threads of the autumn’s last spider webs under the eaves, gathering flurries.

Maybe it is the recollection of the enchantment of childhood, hours spent outside as the snow piled up, snow angels and snowball fights, snow forts and snowmen, until fingers and toes were numb and nose was red.

Whatever it is, whatever the cause, there is magic in a midwinter snow.

Swirling eddies dance against the barn and the shop and the chicken coop, depositing drift upon drift upon drift, and heavy chore boots swish softly through the fresh-fallen snow. Chickens wade comically through the snow as it deepens, breaking their own little path to the water tank down below, or their favorite spots around the yard. The geldings kick up their hooves and create a ground blizzard, dashing through the snowy pasture, a little extra vim and vigor, a little extra fire smoldering cheerfully in the mild-mannered critters. Such a snow transforms everything.

And from the indoors looking out, at the snowglobe world, shaken and all stirred up? Warmth feels warmer, coziness feels cozier, and an hour with a book is sheer delight.

Spring will come soon enough. So, let it snow!

Ranch Wife Musings | What’s in Your Cup?

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on 1-1-2026

As you sit and enjoy a hot cup of coffee on this first day of 2026, poring over the contents of this wonderful, small-town paper, your dog, whom you generally love, comes up next to you and sticks her nose under your elbow in a friendly bid for affection. Up goes her nose, up goes your elbow, and everywhere goes the scalding hot coffee. 

Why?

Our first instinct, of course, is to blame the jostle (or whoever or whatever caused it) for the coffee excitement. But the fundamental reason coffee came out of the cup is because coffee is what was in the cup. If you had been sticking to your New Year’s resolutions and drinking water first thing in the morning, water would have spilled out. Tea, and tea would have spilled out. Less coffee, and maybe nothing would have spilled or only a few drops.

The problem really isn’t the jostle. The problem is the contents of the cup.

Every time an old year fades away in the rearview and a New Year approaches, unfolding before us with all of its newness and freshness, life begs to be assessed, and although some scoff at New Year’s resolutions, I think we miss a wonderful opportunity for change if we fail to at least do some self-reflection, taking stock of the old year and making some goals for the new one.

We’re pretty good at a cursory, surface-level assessment, tending to zero in on things like a number on the scale or a dollar amount in a savings account, things that are pretty non-threatening, not overly challenging, and not overly crushing if we fail. We tend to focus on things that inflate our own egos, reinforce our sense of self-importance, and have no real lasting benefit for anyone.

So I’m going to assist us in this meaningful self-reflection by posing a question: What is in your cup? When you get jostled, what comes out?

Because the jostling doesn’t lie. Whether the jostle is someone who cuts you off in traffic, or hitting every red light on the way to church, getting stuck in the longest checkout line at the store, or clumsily dropping something and making a mess.

Oh, you don’t relate to any of those? How about your crying baby at midnight after three hours of walking the floor, or the spouse who fails to respond to you in just the right way, or the cow that cuts back and jumps over a fence and spoils the gather?

Still nothing? Okay, the boss that patronized you in front of your coworkers, the morning alarm that had the audacity to go off, the wrong man in political office, the toothpaste you got on your shirt as you’re running late to an appointment, the chair that stubbed your toe, or the dog that got into the garbage.

If somehow none of these ring a bell, I promise you’re not exempt. Use a little creativity and come up with a few jostles just for you.

We call those jostles, those circumstances that provoke a response, “stressors.” Annoyances. Provocations. Some of them wouldn’t annoy everyone. Some are just sort of innately annoying or inconvenient. But it is the response that is key, not the stressor. If a stressor is applied and something ugly spills out, the issue isn’t the stressor. The issue is that something ugly was in there to be spilled out in the first place. All of us have those stressors, because ultimately all of us have ugliness in us that, given the right provocation, will spill out.

So I ask again, what is in your cup? When you get jostled, what comes out of you? Is it ugliness and spite? Or is it goodness and graciousness? Is it profanity and vulgarity? Or is it tempered words? Is it anger or gentleness? Is it bitterness or forgiveness? Is it hate or love? Is it stinginess or generosity?

In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, he gives them this list that he calls the Fruit of the Spirit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Self-control rounds out the list of virtues, reminding me that with all the virtues the precede it, there are still parts of us requiring restraint. There is still something there needing to be controlled. There is an ugliness needing to be rooted out.

So, when you get jostled, what comes out? When you get cut off in traffic, does your heartrate spike and you see a little red, and do you yell into your windshield? When a cow acts like a cow when you’re working cows, do you respond with anger and vulgarity, maybe even taking it out on those around you? When your spouse fails to respond just so, do you respond with bitterness and resentment? When you stub your toe, do you spew profanity? When your alarm goes off and you weren’t ready for the day, do you grumble and grouse as you leave the house? What comes out? If it came out, it is fundamentally because it was in there, not because you got jostled.

What would it look like if we all examined the contents of our cups, and then did something about those contents? The contents of our cups are often a direct reflection of what we are actively (or passively, without thinking) pouring into them, in the form of social media, entertainment, and the company we keep, for instance. Sometimes the contents reflect not so much what we’ve poured in, but what we’ve failed to root out.

What if we determined to change what we poured in? What if we poured in so much goodness that there wasn’t room for anything else? What if we were so bathed in the goodness of God and His Word, what if we were so filled with the Fruit of the Spirit, what if we so filled our minds and hearts with good words, kind words, true words, loving words, that when jostled that is what came out?

Would the end of 2026 look any different than the end of 2025 if you were to fill your cup differently? How would it change your relationships? The peace in your home? The dynamic in your family? The strength of your marriage? Your performance at work?

What’s in your cup?

Ranch Wife Musings | The Things that Never Change

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle 12-3-2025

At possibly no other time of the year than now does the whole of society seem to move faster, more frantically, with hardly the time to stop and catch a breath. Shopping malls are a zoo, parking lots are packed, and the post office is drowning in an endless stream of packages shipping to people who don’t like shopping malls and packed parking lots. There is constant pressure to fill the schedule, to overspend, to one-up last year’s festivities with something new and exciting.

No sooner do we finish bowing our head in gratitude on Thanksgiving Day than a frenzy of consumerism takes over – not just material consumerism, but consumerism with regards to entertainment, food, anything that tickles our fickle fancies. We are pressured by advertisements and billboards and social media influencers and the comparison game to chase after those things that are novel and new, that next dopamine hit, the next picture to share on social media, the next experience to boast about.

None of which can infuse meaning into life, or a season, or a holiday. But we try, don’t we? And where does it get us?

Not that there is anything wrong with new experiences, and I enjoy Christmas shopping and wrapping gifts, and gifting to loved ones things that are special or needed. But in my experience, it is never the “new” that makes the season memorable. It is the same things, again and again, that make the season memorable and special. We are indeed creatures of habit, and something in us needs that sweet sameness.

The sound of a bell ringing and the red kettle at the door of the grocery store.

The same outing to cut a Christmas tree.

The same ornaments as last year, familiar and comforting, maybe a little worn and faded.

The same Christmas songs we’ve been singing for decades, generations, and longer.

The Advent candles, the same ones that we burned last year, and the year before, and the year before.

The same handful of traditional gatherings, whether it is caroling or that certain Christmas party, or a live Nativity, or a candlelight service.

The same hodge-podge, maybe even shabby, costumes in the children’s Christmas pageant.

The same foods as every year, traditions handed down generation to generation – pfeffernusse, pickled herring, oyster stew, turkey, gingerbread.

The same faces around the table.

The same enchanting stories, the same handful of favorite Christmas movies.

And of course, last but certainly not least, the same Story. The story of the greatest rescue ever launched, the greatest love story ever told, with those wonderful details that can become mundane and overlooked if we aren’t careful. The obedience of Mary. The faithfulness of Joseph. The humility of the birth of the Savior. The excitement of the Shepherds. The wonder of the Magi.

In a season of chasing new and different, it is the steady and same that keeps us grounded, connected to reality, and connected to truth.

This last month has been something of a time warp for me, with a fresh newborn and life already going faster than I want it to, in a slow mornings and baby snuggles kind of a way. This Christmas and Advent season will look a little different than it has in the past. It will be simpler. Quieter. Softer. Fewer bells and whistles. But the things that stay will be the things that truly matter, the things that point us Heavenward, and pull us closer together as a family, but also closer to our community and church.

It takes intention. It takes deliberate thought and action. But this time of year doesn’t have to be an overwhelming whirlwind.

So find those things that help you to slow down and savor the time, rather than simply surviving it. If you don’t have family traditions, make a few, carefully and with thought. Read a book for Advent. Let Christmas music play in the background throughout the day. Find a live Nativity to go to, or a Christmas Eve service. Bake cookies for your neighbors. Call your aunt and get that favorite recipe from your younger years. Read Luke’s account of the birth of Christ.

It isn’t the newness that makes Christmastime special. It is the sameness. The steadiness. The unchangingness of it all. Dig in to that sweet sameness.

We need those things that never change.

Room for Peace

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Originally printed in the Nov/Dec issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

The coffee percolator perks to life in the sleeping house. A little ribbon of red streaks the eastern horizon, and a handful of scattered stars gleam coldly in the pale, colorless sky, above the leafless trees. There are gentle sounds of waking, throughout the house and from the yard. A horse whinnying as the geldings come in for their breakfast. The first call from the roosters down in the chickencoop. Distant yipping from a pack of coyotes, and sleepy howls from the black-and-whites, not quite ready to get up.

Fingers wrap tight around steaming cups of coffee while the waking sun, reluctant to rise, comes to grip with the morning at hand. We sip a little slower, savoring the slowness. And in that lingering a little longer over the ritual of coffee, waiting for first light and the day to begin, there is peace. Quiet. Tranquility. Watching as the sky gradually brightens and lightens and the day begins.

In those first frosty mornings of the early winter when every breath is a cloud of white, in those last showers of golden-brown leaves, late to fall and carpeting underfoot, in the first skim of ice on the watertanks, or the first snow, there is peace, a hush and a feeling of reverence and bursting joy, as those first warming rays of daylight stream across the silvered or snowed-over landscape. Winter is on its way. Winter is here.

With the happy chaos of autumn behind us, with the fall calf crop weaned and sold, with heavy cows out to pasture and the garden put to bed, there settles in another sort of peace, and I guard it jealously. It is the peace of belonging, of nostalgic remembrances, of the past colliding with the present. A different kind of peace. I guard it, in customs my husband and I have built, for the two of us and our growing family, in the simple Thanksgiving gatherings and the quiet search for the perfect Christmas tree, in the songs and carols, the Advent observances, and the handful of choice festivities that punctuate this season with rejoicing. I guard it, in the traditions passed down generation to generation, in the worn recipe cards and the tastes and smells of the season. We turn for sweet refuge to the familiar, cherishing the dear faces gathered close around the feast-day tables, family and friends dear as family, hearing the beloved voices mingle together in their tale-telling and laughter. There is peace. Sweet peace.

The setting sun, earlier and swifter, sinks below the ridge behind our house, sinking into the pines as the sky above flames red, lighting for one intense and rosy moment the Badlands and Sheep Mountain Table miles and miles away to the east. The settling chill, first harbinger of true winter, bites a little. The shorter days and the crisper evenings chase us inside sooner, and we flee to the warmth and golden light, to the peace of comfort, a hot meal, and love of family, and the pastimes that sweeten the long winter evenings. And as the day draws to a close, in peace we lay our heads down. 

A midnight wakeup and a gaze at the winter sky fills the mind with wonder – Crisp and cold, the inky sky above dazzles with a million stars, brighter than they ever are in the spring and summer, when the slightest haze dulls their brilliance. They are reflected back in glittering frost. What splendor, and only for those awake when everyone else is asleep. And in that awestruck gaze, there is room for peace, the peace of beholding brilliance and knowing to Whom the wonder is due, and from Whom the peace comes.

And in the hush of midnight, or the wee hours of snowy morning, there is the peace of safety and security, in the slow breathing of spouse nearby, the sleepy whimper of a dog dreaming a good dream, and soft infant sounds of needs met and sleep embraced.

In that hush, there is room for peace.