BRIAN R. MARVEL
PORAC President
In Memoriam: Grant Ward
As his friend and colleague for many years, I want to dedicate my president’s message to Grant Ward and write as someone who knew him not just as the steadfast president of the Sheriff’s Employees’ Benefit Association (SEBA) and a dedicated PORAC Executive Committee member, but as a brother in arms, a source of endless encouragement and one of the most genuinely positive souls I’ve ever encountered.
Grant Ward entered this world with a light that never dimmed, even when the shadows grew long. He grew up in the community of Rancho Cucamonga and answered the call to serve in law enforcement starting in 1998 with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. From there, he took his talents to the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department in 2004 and rose through the ranks to sergeant, but it was his heart for people that truly defined him. Our paths crossed in 2017 when he became president of SEBA and I was running for president of PORAC. Over these last nine years, I saw that Grant was the unwavering voice for thousands of deputies, probation correctional officers and a variety of safety employees. He didn’t just lead; he cared deeply. He fought for better contracts, stronger legal protections and a louder presence in Sacramento. To Grant, every member was family, and he treated you that way — with respect, fairness and an unshakable belief that those who protect others deserve the same in return and, without a doubt, a giant hug!
One moment that will stay with me is when he announced his cancer diagnosis, which happened at our Executive Committee meeting in early 2024. We were wrapping up the meeting, and under new business, Grant said he had to make an announcement.
In a calm and steady voice, he said something like, “Hey, before we go, I need to share something with you all.” Then, almost matter-of-factly but with quiet seriousness underneath, he told us he’d been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer that had already spread. No drama, no tears in his voice, just straight, honest words. But right away, he followed it with his unshakable faith and positivity: he talked about how he was going to fight it, how he believed in the plan ahead with treatments, how he trusted God to carry him through and how he was determined to fight through this diagnosis, being there for his family, for all of us, for the job.
It was so nonchalant in delivery, yet so profoundly serious in content, that the room went still. We were all shocked, stunned, really, because here was Grant, letting us know about this life-altering news like it was just another update on the agenda. I remember exchanging glances with some of the committee members, unsure how to respond. Some of us froze, others started asking gentle questions, but no one quite knew what to say because his tone didn’t invite pity or despair. It invited hope. He was reassuring us even as he shared the hardest thing imaginable.
It felt surreal. The weight of the diagnosis hung heavy, but Grant’s upbeat spirit and deep faith cut right through it, leaving us in this strange mix of heartache and inspiration. I left that meeting quieter than usual, processing what he’d just entrusted to us, but also carrying a piece of his courage. That was Grant — turning even the darkest moment into something that lifted others up, making sure we knew he wasn’t defeated before the fight had even really begun.
That moment in time really captured who he was, the dignity, the positivity, the way he always put everyone else at ease, even when his own world had just shifted forever. That moment, more than any other, captured what I’ll remember most about Grant: his positivity, that infectious, upbeat nature that could turn some of the most heated discussions into something bearable, even hopeful. He’d walk into a room with that big, genuine smile, or offering a quick word of encouragement that made you feel seen and valued. His energy was never forced; it came from a place of real optimism, rooted in faith, family and a profound gratitude for the life he lived. Whether speaking at a PORAC gathering or just grabbing a Diet Mountain Dew with friends, Grant radiated warmth. He made you laugh, he lifted your spirits and he reminded you why we do this work — not just for the badge, but for the people we serve and stand beside.
For the next two years, Grant fought his cancer with the positive spirit and outward concern for others that had always defined him. He fought like no one I’ve ever known. Not with anger or despair, but with grace and grit. Through treatments, pain and the relentless toll of the disease, he stayed focused on his family, his job and his extended loved ones who surrounded him until the very end. He continued advocating where he could, checking in on PORAC matters, making sure state issues were being addressed and offering support to members facing their own struggles — never letting his battle eclipse his care for us. Even in his weakest moments, he’d ask how you were doing first, flash that smile and say something uplifting. He refused to let cancer steal his joy or his kindness. He showed us what true strength looks like: not the absence of fear, but the choice to meet it with hope, to prioritize others even when your own world seems insurmountable.
Grant and I would talk weekly, sometimes more, but shortly before he passed, his calls stopped. Then I was told on February 1, 2026, that Grant passed peacefully, surrounded by the love he had given so freely. The loss ripples through PORAC, his department, our unions and every life he touched. Yet in the ache, there’s also profound gratitude. Grant didn’t just leave a legacy of leadership; he left a blueprint for how to live — with integrity in uniform, tireless advocacy on and off duty, and an unbreakable spirit that inspired everyone around him.
Grant, my dear friend, you were the best of us. Your positivity lit the way for so many, and your courage in the face of unimaginable hardship taught us dignity in its purest form. You protected others your whole life — on the streets, in the halls of power and in the quiet ways that matter most. Rest now, brother. You’ve earned it. We’ll carry your light forward, just as you carried ours.
With deepest respect and gratitude,
Brian