Author Archives: Laura Lindblom

Ranch Wife Musings | Bearing Burdens

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on May 20, 2026

Branding season is that yearly reminder of how thankful I am for the community we are blessed to live in. A lot of prep work goes into a branding, from sorting, vaccinating, and moving all the pairs to the branding pasture ahead of time, to gathering up the irons and stoves and more vaccine, to rounding up a crew of our friends and neighbors, cooking for a small army, and more. We start early and work hard, running like clockwork to get several hundred pairs gathered, sorted, and the calves vaccinated, branded, and cut, swapping stories and laughs in passing. Shoulder-to-shoulder with our neighbors we accomplish a massive task.

This year, there was a different tone, a little heavier than usual, as dry as it is, as little grass as there is, and as many cow-calf pairs are already moving. If you see cattle pots on the road, they’re loaded, and sale barns are full. It is a tough spring, record-breaking in the worst of ways. Conversation returned, again and again – how could it not? – to the drought, the lack of rain, the storms missing us, the beaten down pastures, the price of hay, the price of trucking, what to sell and when. Again and again, there was the shrug and the weary smile, and the understood “we’ll figure it out, one way or another.”  

I don’t think it is a coincidence that as we have gotten more efficient as a society, we have also gotten lonelier. As we have replaced one another with machines, we’ve suffered for fellowship. As we’ve enabled ourselves to travel further for work and church and daily life, we’ve gotten less connected with the people in our immediate vicinity. We connect with hundreds of people superficially and fail to connect meaningfully with anyone. When you remove need, connection suffers. When connection is a luxury, it tends to fall to the wayside.

There are more efficient ways to do things. Some ranches have gone to utilizing a calf table to brand, instead of ropers and wrestlers, which cuts the needed manpower substantially. Ranches in this region are still largely rope-and-drag outfits, included ours, and for that I’m thankful. And a year like this brings that into focus.

It is years like this where we need each other more, not less. In some ways, that’s counterintuitive. We branded fewer calves, and there will likely be less work to do this summer and fall, and fewer cattle to work or preg test. But when you’re facing uncertainty, it really does help to face it with other people who are also facing similar uncertainty. Knowing that you’re not the only one really does help. Knowing that other people are just as stumped over what to do next alleviates some of the stress of having to figure it all out.

We truly do need each other.

The Bible is full of commands that my former pastor called the “one anothers.” In case it isn’t painfully obvious, the “one anothers” only work if you are with one another. They are hard to accomplish in solitude.

Love one another. Serve one another. Pray for one another. Be kind to one another. Forgive one another. Submit to one another. Encourage one another. Build one another up. Seek to do good to one another. Show hospitality to one another. Can any of those commands truly be obeyed without relationships, in solitude?

And one of my favorites: Bear one another’s burdens.

The mental image is that of taking a heavy load from someone else’s shoulders so they can have reprieve, or shouldering their load with them and then carrying it together. Shoulder to shoulder, both can stand a little straighter and walk longer and carry it further.

Bear one another’s burdens. Burdens of work. Burdens of uncertainty. Burdens of care. Burdens of sorrow. Burdens of worry. Burdens of fear.

Burdens like the task of branding hundreds of calves. Burdens like wondering when and how to continue ranching when the weather seems set against it. Burdens like if and when and what to sell. Burdens like how to feed the animals you keep, and whether to try to hold out for a weather change.

Bear one another’s burdens.

This whole season is one long opportunity for burden-bearing. Ranch after ranch brands their calves, starting in late April or early May, trusting in their friends and neighbors to help bear the burden of the branding itself, but this year there is more than usual of the other kinds of burdens, the burdens of uncertainty and worry and the rest. And I’m thankful for a community that can come together around a shared task, puzzle over a shared struggle, smile, shrug, and say, “We’ll figure it out, one way or another.”

Branding day this year brought that into focus.

Pasques and Pines

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Originally printed in the May/June issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

The pasqueflowers bloomed early this year. Perhaps they were tricked by the unseasonable weather, like the plums and the crabapples. Dandelions have tried to spring up, but haven’t been overly successful. But the pasques! How could they bloom with no moisture over the winter? So delicate-appearing, so insignificant visually, the first to bloom and the first to fade, but incredibly resilient. They thrive in disturbed areas, like recently logged terrain, and some of the best I’ve seen have been in old wildfire scars. The ones on our place bloom on the north slope of Potato Butte, a rather rugged and blighted prominence, and in the draws around it, where the wind blows the worst. They fight their way up through the rocky ground, rivalling yucca in toughness, spreading their little leaves and opening their petals in a tangle of old grass and bracken. They survive frosty days and wretched conditions no other wildflower is brave enough to face. When the sun is just right, they light up, their transparent petals like stained glass, and the silky hairs catching the sun. Little beacons of hope they become. They don’t bloom when and where it is easy. And they aren’t easy to cultivate. They thrive in adversity.

Fire is on our doorstep. From the burning of the Sandhills, to the fires that have lit the skies and eaten up pasture as near as two miles away, the drought is oppressive. Most have never seen it this bleak this early. There is no telling how the next weeks and months will play out, no telling how much harder things will get, or how beautifully they may turn around. They’ve done so before. The uncertainty makes us feel so very small. But a recent drive took me through an area burned by a devastating fire a few years back and my heart, heavy right now, lifted and soared. The entire forest floor was green. Not the green of grass, but the green of hundreds and thousands of seedling pines. So very small. Little beacons of hope. Thanks to the flames of the fire, the forest is reseeding itself. They thrive in hardship.

A few weeks ago, the sandhill cranes flew overhead like they do each spring, without fail. I love watching them fly together, wing to wing, and their wonderful wild call pierces the heart. “Fly on! Fly on!” they seem to cry, one to one another, in chorus.

Perhaps the bleakness isn’t so all-consuming after all.

The meadowlarks have returned, sitting on fence wires and the tops of fence posts, and they still have things to sing about, raising their melodious voices in solo song.

Perhaps we do, too.

The bluebirds are homemaking as always and the Eurasian collared doves are romancing in the pine trees, cooing lovingly together, laughing and trilling. A lusty little starling, drab and unimpressive, sat outside our window, somehow managing to whistle a glorious ditty around the blade of grass in her beak, singing while she built a nest for her family. What a delightful sound!

If the birds can go about their mundane tasks and their quiet little lives with a song in their hearts, perhaps we can, too. We can tend our homes, we can break bread with our families and neighbors, we can bear one another’s burdens, and hold our loved ones tight and tighter. We can find joy in a smile or a warm embrace, in the bubbling laugh and sloppy kisses of a baby.

And like the pasqueflowers, perhaps we, too, can thrive even in hard frosts and snowless winters and rainless springs. Perhaps we can thrive in churned up earth and on rocky, windblown hillsides, or in the ashy, deadened landscape after a rangeland fire. Like the pine woods, perhaps we can weather a fire and the heat that burns and clears and cleanses, and in its aftermath a whole new forest will grow.

The birds, the flowers, the forest – They were not made for ease. Are we so different?  

Ranch Wife Musings | Hard Times

Posted on by under Agriculture and Ranching, country life, Writing

Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on April 22, 2026

It is the same look on everyone’s faces, the same careworn expression. I would guess the same pit sits in everyone’s stomachs right about now. Mornings should smell damp and fresh. We should be wearing muck boots and watching mists and fog drift across pastures at first light. Those lacy spiderwebs that appear overnight should be studded with dewdrops. We should be seeing the start of green grass. But there is no grass.

The corrals and calving lot are 6 inches of dust, and the pastures are bone dry and chewed down. It hurts your heart to look at them. Every little movement of every living thing, every breath of wind, kicks up dust. And goodness knows we’ve had our share of wind.

Calving season should wrap up with the eager anticipation of what comes next, but right now the “next” is uncertain.

All winter long, we remind ourselves that December and January, and even February, tend to be dry here, and that’s fine and normal. We remind ourselves that there’s plenty of time for the needed moisture. Plenty of time. Then March rolls through bringing no snow and we look to April, saying to ourselves, “We’ve gotten great snowstorms in April.”

And then April passes by. “It always rains. Eventually,” we remind ourselves. And then when cynicism creeps in and you think, “Well, at least there’s nothing to burn,” a spark lights off a 5000-acre grassfire. Apparently, there was something to burn.

“Please, God, make it rain.”

The inner monologue changes as the situation worsens, and as optimism gives way to reality.

There is no grass. Dams are dry pits. We haven’t really had measurable precipitation since October. The greenest spot on the whole ranch is the patch of lush grass around the septic tank in the yard.

Tough questions are being asked. Questions regarding the best interest of the livestock and the best use of the land. At this point, any answer will be a tough answer, most likely.

What do we do now? That seems to be the question everyone is asking.

You can’t ranch without grass. You can only feed so much hay, and where does the hay come from? You can only truck it so far, with the price of fuel. And fundamentally, regardless of how the media and four-letter organizations like to characterize those in agriculture, ranchers want what is best for the livestock and the land.

It is times of uncertainty that force us to acknowledge God. It is hard times that drive us to our knees in prayer. They are a reminder that we don’t live in a perfect world. They remind us that we don’t in fact govern the weather. Generally, in agriculture, that’s a pretty easy fact to grasp, but bad years are an extra dose of reality, that the weather is not subject whatsoever to our whims or desires. Hard times invite us to revisit God’s Word, and to be comforted in His sovereignty, and His purposes, which are always greater than ours. Uncertainty invites us to be reminded of His promise in Genesis that, “While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.” Hard times invite us to marvel at His created order. God built incredible resilience into this world.

There are so many extremes of thought when it comes to the environment. There is the extreme to one side that seems to think we are constantly teetering on the brink of total annihilation, with a fixed date of destruction that surreptitiously gets moved, again and again, when the annihilation doesn’t happen. Then there is the extreme of exploitation without concern for the future, a using up of resources without concern for the next five years, let alone the next generation. There is the incredible arrogance and short-sightedness of weather manipulation, as if we actually can, or have any business trying, and truly could without making a total mess of things. And then there is a whole host of varied viewpoints somewhere in the middle of the mess, who can at least agree to the overarching idea of stewardship, if not the fine points. Stewardship being a caretaking of nature and our natural resources, neither the abandonment demanded on one side or the exploitation of the other, neither harnessing nor manipulating, but a partnering with and stewarding of the world around us.

And stewardship as mandated and defined by the Bible leads us to acknowledge that God as Creator has put in place an incredible created order, that allows regions to suffer drought and heat and natural disasters, and somehow, beautifully, amazingly rebound. The fresh green grass in recent burn scars evidences this, as well as the wonderful biodiversity in places like Hell Canyon, in the area of the Jasper Fire. It is a kind of stewardship that recognizes our responsibility but also God’s control.

If not even a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the knowledge of God, then not a raindrop falls, or doesn’t, without God’s permission either. If He clothed the fields then, 2000 years ago when the Gospel writer recorded the words of Jesus, He who is the same today clothes the fields today.

Pray for a miracle. Please, do. Pray for the skies to open and for rain upon a dry, parched earth. Pray for fruitfulness and life and safety.  I know I am. But my greater prayer, the prayer growing in volume, is for faithfulness. That we would have eyes to see God’s faithfulness displayed, and that we would be faithful to Him.

Because God is not primarily about the business of our comfort. In fact, our comfort doesn’t even make the priority list of eternity. God is about the business of fitting saints for Heaven, and fitness for Heaven rarely is accomplished through comfort and ease. It is accomplished through difficulty, testing, trials.

When we reach a point of breaking and holy mending, or breaking and holy sustaining.

When our best-laid plans and our smug self-sufficiency wilt away like last season’s grasses, and we are forced to actually wait for the rain of God’s providence.

Oftentimes, God’s most poignant and lasting work in us is done in hard times when we are brought to the utter end of ourselves.

Ranch Wife Musings | The Cute Factor

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Originally printed in the Custer County Chronicle on 3-25-26

The calving season is well underway and we have an official Cutest Calf of 2026 nomination, and so far I haven’t seen anything that comes close to rivaling him for looks. His mama is a pretty little black baldy heifer, with a delicate white face, not blocky like some can be, and cute black eye patches. And her calf? Oh, man. He’s got so much white on his face that it extends to the backs of his ears, which are frosted white on the insides. He’s got a pink nose with black freckles, four white socks, a white belly, and a white tip on his tail. And you just have to look at him and laugh, he’s so cute. Most years, he’d look pretty out of place. So would his mother, for that matter. Because we are an Angus outfit, running Angus cows and about 50/50 Angus and Charolais bulls.

Anyone in the cattle business has preferences. Some of those preferences are based off of verifiable facts, and others of those preferences are based off stubbornness disguised as fact. Baxter Black knew something about this reality.

If you talk to an Angus rancher, the choice to run an Angus herd is supported by rattling off a list of the benefits of Angus cows, including things like mothering instinct and calving ease, over, say, Hereford cows which are known to be poor mothers and have terrible calving ability. However, if you talk to a Hereford rancher, their preference list includes things like mothering instinct and calving ease, over, say, Angus cattle, which are known to be poor mothers and have terrible calving ability.

Ranchers tend to like the cows that do well for them on their own ranch. Which happen to be the cows that they have bred to that ranch. There are strengths and weaknesses of different breeds, absolutely, but if we’re being quite transparent many of those strengths and weaknesses have less to do with the breed itself and more with the line of genetics that have proliferated, regardless of the breed. Poor feet, poor udders, unfavorable birthweight, poor temperament, risk of prolapse, all can be bred into or out of a herd, regardless of the breed of cattle being run. A healthy herd program includes an aggressive cull program.

If you ask me, though, a lot of it (but certainly not all of it) boils down to this: the cute factor.

Of course, a crusty and stoic rancher wouldn’t call it that, but basically Angus ranchers like what Angus cows look like, Hereford ranchers like what Hereford cows look like, and so on. Pretty obvious. But what do I know?

What I do know is this: if you talk to enough rancher’s wives, you’ll find that the cute factor (which also accounts for general endearing-ness) is super important. Super important. Good thing ranchers are stubborn and opinionated, because their wives are, too, and if it were up to us, western South Dakota would eventually be overrun with odd and adorable crosses for which there is currently no market. If I was forced to pick between two cows, one of which had that loveable little tuft of hair sticking straight up between her ears? That one would stay every time, even if she was a bit of an airhead.  The cuter the better. We’re just willing to unapologetically say it out loud, even if it gets us teased.  

But you know how teasing often says more about the one doing the teasing than the one being teased? Yeah.

So, let’s circle back to the Cutest Calf of 2026.

My father-in-law had a friendly little daily routine with the neighbor’s bull three years ago, who’d pay our cows a daily visit before being escorted back home. Everyone tries to keep this sort of thing from happening, but sometimes it just happens because of the logistics of pasture and water and whatnot. It got to the point that the bull would see Dave coming on the fourwheeler and just head himself back home. Suffice it to say he was a fertile animal, because the next spring, there was an impressive number of his progeny popping up all over the calving pasture, little baldy babies, brockle-faced babies, and a handful that looked straight Hereford. Boy, you knew who their dad was. Boy, they were cute. Boy, was there grousing. But it was mostly bluster, and I know this because of the number of baldy replacement heifers – and two that look straight Hereford – that were kept out of that calf crop by none other than my crusty father-in-law (don’t let him fool you; he’s really a big softie).

When my father-in-law teases me and pokes fun at me for my enjoyment of all the little baldy babies and brockle babies and the ones that look straight Hereford? I’m pretty sure I found the chink in his armor. He thinks they’re as cute as I do.

But it gets funnier.

This spring, we weren’t at all surprised when those same baldy replacement heifers calved baldy calves. That was pretty expected. But then one day a black heifer calved a baldy calf. We scratched our heads. Odd. Then another black heifer calved a baldy calf. And another. And another. We scratched our heads and racked our brains, and finally think we remembered the neighbor’s bull getting in with the heifers. One time. Once. Talk about getting it done.

But it gets funnier. They’re basically all my father-in-law’s. Including the Cutest Calf of 2026.

So, if you see my father-in-law, be sure to ask him about his Hereford-influenced breeding program. Rumor has it he’ll be starting to scope out Hereford bull sales in the near future.

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.

Waiting

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Originally printed in the March/April 2026 issue of Down Country Roads Magazine

As February fades behind us, with hardly a day that could really be called winter, and March unfolds before us, springtime seems immediately inevitable. We’ve had stretches of wonderful warmth, so unseasonal that one worried the trees and early spring garden plants might become disoriented and bud out too soon. We’ve had the T-shirt days, the sitting outside and soaking up the sun days, the productive days of outdoor projects. But each little cold snap, whether it is a day or a week, jars us back to the reality that springtime, true springtime, could be weeks away. Gardeners might be itching to get their hands in some good black dirt, seeds might be germinating on windowsills, fresh calves might be tumbling about the calving lot, all the telltale signs of spring – but here in western South Dakota, spring is still a ways away.

So we count down the days, waiting.

Waiting for warmth.

Waiting for blue-sky springtime.

Waiting for the longer days and the feel of earth softening underfoot.

Waiting for the perfume of sap flowing, the unmistakable signature of the pines.

Waiting for the smell of good clean dirt dampened and warmed.

Waiting for greenness and life.

Waiting for moisture. Rain or snow. Either will do.

And that really is what we’re waiting for. Moisture. Some years, the earth is hard with cold right about now, maybe beginning to thaw, maybe even buried under a blanket of white, waking slowly from a long winter. This year, there isn’t enough moisture to freeze or thaw. Passing snow flurries or a smattering of precipitation dampens the dry dirt for a fleeting few hours, but doesn’t heal the wide cracks in the ground, the dryness that drills down, and further down. Everyone gets a little jittery at the smell of smoke. Whirlwinds skim across the pastures, winter-barren, drought-dry, twisting what’s left of last year’s grasses. Not a hint of green is showing yet, in spite of the unseasonal weather.

But we know from experience how fast all of that can change, in these in-between months of almost-but-not-yet springtime. How quickly the skies can build and bring moisture in from elsewhere, blessed moisture, blessed relief. We know how fast a heavy snow can pile up drifts and replenish dams and change the trajectory of the coming months. How quickly the landscape can soften with the first shoots of green.

Moisture means hope. It means grass for the cattle and water in the dams and the promise of a harvest. It means life and fruitfulness and safety. And not just for this year, but for the next. Green or dry, one year affects the next. Good water in the dams, good grass in the pastures, and well-summered cattle handle winter better, handle calving better, and the next year’s calf crop fares better as well. And this year’s calves are the mamas two years from now. When a rancher worries over lack of rain, it isn’t just right now that he’s concerned about.

But springtime is a promise. And a reminder of a promise. A promise made nearly at the beginning of time, in the book of Genesis, that “while the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.” Because of the One who made the promise, year after year, springtime comes. Year after year, the seasons shift and change, and without fail each season comes as it should. Not always in the exact manner we would prefer, if we had the power to ordain snowfall and rainfall. Sometimes we wait and pray and wait some more. But the seasons persist because God the Creator says that they should.

This isn’t the first drought. This isn’t the first dry winter. This isn’t the first uncertain springtime. And yet, there continue to be cattle on these hills and prairies. There continues to be fruitful life and harvest. The springtime always comes, and the summer after.

And so we watch the skies, and wait.