Yesterday marked two years since my dear friend Martin Sanders went to be with the Lord. I’ll be honest—sitting down to write about him on the actual anniversary was too much. Instead, I spent the day thinking of him, carried by memories and that familiar ache of missing him. In some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago; in others, I still expect to see his name pop up on my phone, ready with a question, a laugh or a sharp insight.
Grief is a strange companion, isn’t it? It changes shape, but the love that fuels it remains constant.
Martin and I shared a lot of life together. We weren’t just colleagues or casual acquaintances; we were soul friends. We were part of the Point Group, Leighton Ford’s mentoring cohort, which was a crucible for deep connection and spiritual growth. In those rooms, we learned that leadership isn’t just about strategy—it’s about the state of your soul.
One of the profound threads that bound us together was the mutual loss of a spouse. When you walk through that specific valley, you speak a language that others, thankfully, haven’t had to learn yet. We understood the silence of an empty house. We understood the ache.
I will never forget when my wife, Brenda, died. Martin didn’t send a card. He didn’t just call. He changed his plans, got on a plane, and flew to be with me. He didn’t come to fix anything—he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t come with platitudes or theological explanations. He just came to be there.
That is the mark of a true friend and a great leader. He understood the ministry of presence. Do you have people in your life who will just sit in the ashes with you? If you do, treasure them.
Later, when God brought a new chapter of joy into my life and I remarried, Martin didn’t miss a beat. He welcomed Glenda into our friendship from the very beginning with open arms and that characteristic warmth of his. He made her feel like she had always been part of the circle. Because of that, she misses him deeply, too.
Our friendship wasn’t all solemn nods and shared grief. Far from it. We laughed—loudly and often. We shared a certain irreverence that might have surprised people who only knew us from a distance. We travelled together, finding humour in the chaos of airports and the nuances of different cultures. We believed the disciples of Jesus laughed a lot and that if you can’t laugh at the absurdity of life, you probably aren’t paying close enough attention.
Out of our shared passion for developing leaders, we started the Mentored Podcast. We wanted to pass along wisdom, encourage other mentors, and frankly, just have the conversations we wished we’d heard when we were younger. Recording those episodes didn’t feel like work; it felt like an extension of our friendship. I re-listen to them sometimes, just to hear his voice and his wisdom.
Martin was a man who invested deeply in others. He challenged me, he encouraged me, and he loved me well. He also loved my sons and spent time with them even when they lived overseas. When they married, he embraced my daughters and loved them too.
As I reflect on these two years without him, I am reminded that the best way to honour those we’ve lost is to embody what they taught us. Martin taught me about showing up. He taught me about the power of laughter. He emphasized the importance of taking care of your own soul. He taught me that mentoring is, at its heart, about loving people into their potential.
So today, I’m thanking God for the gift of Martin Sanders. I miss him, but I am so grateful that our paths didn’t just cross—they merged for a season.
Here’s a question for you as you go about your week: Who needs you to just show up for them today? Not to fix, not to preach, but just to be?
Rest well, my friend. We are carrying the torch.
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