We gathered Saturday afternoon at the park in front of Allegheny General Hospital.

We lit our candles in the full, late-day sun and tried to keep them lit despite a strong, steady breeze. It wasn't easy, and in the end I realized maybe that was the point.

We gathered -- family, friends, neighbors, police officers and community activists -- to remember Frank Christopher, the pizza delivery man who was shot to death on the North Side on July 28.

We gathered to encourage Carol Terle -- "Cookie," his lifelong companion, a kindhearted woman who accompanied him on so many of his delivery runs and was shot with him that terrible night.

And we gathered to take a stand against the stupid violence that spreads destruction and loss to so many people -- to the victims, to their families, to the community and to the hopeless perpetrators.

Why should you care? If your address is farther north than the North Side, in one of the beautiful, leafy suburbs where things like this rarely happen, why should you care?

Partly because people of goodwill feel regret whenever a decent person dies tragically, without having lived his full measure of three score and 10 years. Frankie Christopher, my neighbor, was 42.

You should care partly because the justice system your taxes finance is returning young criminals to the streets seemingly before the paperwork on their prior arrests is even finished. Both young men charged with Christopher's killing have criminal records. And you should care partly because it may be your teenagers or your neighbors' teenagers who are driving down to my neighborhood to buy their drugs, fueling the fear and violence that threaten to overwhelm our streets. I'm writing down their license plate numbers and making regular calls to the police, just as organizer Adrienne Young urged us to do at Saturday's prayer vigil.

Young's 18-year-old son, Javon Thompson, a student at Carnegie Mellon University, was shot to death in December 1994, reportedly for refusing to support the Bloods street gang. A few years after his death, his mother founded Tree of Hope, an organization devoted to assisting victims of violence.

Her assistance Saturday came in the form of much-needed moral support. She preaches more effectively and passionately than almost any minister I've ever heard.

"I'm tired of a small group of people terrorizing our communities," Young proclaimed to applause.

"Get to know your neighborhood police officers," she said while introducing one to the crowd. "Invite them in for coffee."

Her support was also practical; she urged us to sign up for an organized block watch. Dozens of us did.

It was a profound encouragement that, for me, came not a moment too soon.

I used to live in one of those beautiful, leafy suburbs north of the city. Three years ago, when my life was in great upheaval, I moved to the North Side, hoping to salvage something, anything, from a crumbling building, a crumbling neighborhood, a crumbling marriage.

Divorced now, discouraged by the laws of physics, the lethargy of contractors and the spike in local drug traffic, I've had plenty of grim days. It's been hard to hang on to the spiritual call that I believed pulled me here. Friday evening I wept while I was doing the dishes, wondering whether it was time to give up.

But Saturday, I went to the prayer vigil. A neighbor whom I hadn't seen in a few weeks threw her arms around my neck and exclaimed, "I thought you'd moved!" Then, after I mentioned a long vacation, she said, "Don't you move away from here, OK?"

It's the good people like her, the ones who choose to live decent, law-abiding lives, who keep a community together.

It's people like Frank Christopher and Cookie Terle, who renovated vacant houses and opened them up to the homeless people they fed.

It's people like Jack Christopher, Frankie's big brother, who spoke so poignantly at the prayer vigil. Jack's a block watch member who has intervened in public crimes such as spousal assault and bears some neighbors' scorn for doing so. He greeted well-wishers near the sign-up tables.

After several speakers, both scheduled and impromptu, urged us to bring something good out of Frank's tragic death, we lit candles and walked up East Ohio Street to Lillen's Restaurant, where Frank had picked up his last delivery. Dozens of us -- former strangers, now neighbors -- sang "This Little Light of Mine" and prayed.

The wind was strong. It extinguished our candles over and over again, but when one person's candle failed, another just paused and shared the flame.

That's what it takes.