A Blueprint for How to Live

From My Journey November 29, 2025November 29, 2025

Bill Hassett had been hosting our Wednesday Still Point chapel for nearly five years. Our dear friend passed to the next life on October 26, 2025. The following reflection comes from Bill’s son, Kyle, who offered his father’s eulogy. In it, Kyle shares the faith, service, and generous way of being in the world that shaped his dad’s life. It is a chance to honor our friend, and perhaps to discover in his story a quiet guide for our own: how we might live by learning from the one we loved.

Good morning and thank you all so much for being here today. It truly means the world to us to see you all here and I know it would’ve meant everything to my dad. 

I want to begin in the only logical place I can think to start this: by talking about myself. It was just about a month ago when I was considering buzzing all my hair off for the first time to see how it would look. I triple checked my upcoming schedule to make sure there wasn’t anything that would require me to be around large groups of people in case it looked bad … Well, here we are. Thanks a lot, Dad. Among the many things Colin and I inherited from our dad was his hairline. Luckily, I look incredible.

Alright we’re off and running now! I know my dad would have been so incredibly humbled, honored, and probably a little embarrassed, to see this many people gathered for him. Because as many of you know, he was never one to seek the spotlight — he was too busy shining it on everyone else.

My dad lived his life with a rare combination of faith, humor, and service. He truly believed in his calling — that his purpose here on Earth was to serve others. And he did it with such warmth and generosity that made everyone who crossed his path felt seen, heard, and cared for. He had this deep compassion and focus that made you feel like you were the only person in the room, even if you were speaking with him for the first time.

And that laugh of his. It was one of those full-bodied, contagious laughs that made you smile even if you didn’t hear the joke. I’m sure many of you can hear it now vividly in your mind, as I can. Colin and I also inherited his disappearing eyes any time we smile. So come over and make us laugh later if you want to get a glimpse of him again. As those that have met me know all too well, I’ve been known to joke around now and again, and lately I’ve been wondering if the origins of that part of my personality were to try and hear that great laugh of his as much as possible. He was one of the most genuine people I’ll ever know. 

Even amid his years-long battle with cancer, any time anyone would ask him how he was doing he’d say “Livin’ the dream!” which a disaffected Millennial in Corporate America such as myself would normally take as sarcasm — but he totally meant it. He found joy and purpose in everything he did and he clearly had a whole lot of people that loved him – he lived the dream indeed.

He loved his work with the myriad of charities he was a part of, and he never let the bumps in the road slow him down. Even this past year, through the seemingly endless health complications, he stayed on his mission. The illness to him was just an inconvenience — a minor annoyance that got in the way of helping others. There was always more to do.

And I’m not entirely sure how he found time for it all. Beyond havingseemingly endless days of Zoom meetings, where we could hear that laugh reverberating around his office, his beloved breakfast and lunch meetings with so many of you, dinners with friends and family, he was a voracious reader on top of all that. He typically had no less than three library books in rotation at any given time, with several dozen more on hold, on topics ranging from theology to somehow yet another book about the life of Abraham Lincoln to who knows what else. 

Gifting him a new book was completely pointless with the speed he read at. We’d hand him something that we felt was thoughtful, and he’d either have already read it, or by the next morning I’d find him in his office reading something else. When asked if he didn’t like the new book, he’d say “Oh I already finished it. Quite enjoyable, thank you!” Thirty bucks down the drain.

He faced this long, difficult journey with incredible grace. Up until the very end, you wouldn’t have known that anything was wrong with him. He didn’t want sympathy, he didn’t want attention — he just wanted to keep doing what mattered. He only stopped when his body simply wouldn’t let him continue. With everything that he dealt with this past year, I’m amazed at the poise and perspective he kept throughout it all. 

A few days before he passed, I was helping him up the stairs. Before we started up, he paused at the bottom of the steps, looked out the window, and said with the little energy he had left, “Sure looks like a perfect day out there.” Even with everything going on around and inside him, he saw the beauty in life. He understood what mattered most. He always stopped to smell the roses, even as the illness threw everything it could at him.

He didn’t want to linger, and he never wanted to be a burden to anyone. When it was time, he accepted it with peace and he went quickly. He had no doubts about where he was going next. In his final months as his health deteriorated, he would say that he could feel the Lord walking with him by his side. And somehow, through over six years of living with cancer, he was almost completely spared any pain — a complete miracle given the laundry list of ways his body was failing.

My dad gave us the blueprint for how to live — a life of purpose, service, humor, faith, and joy. A life where you give more than you take, listen more than you speak, and laugh as often as you can through the ups and downs. So, as we remember him today, even though he may be physically gone, his north star of a life well-lived will remain shining in each of us as we go forth into the world.