Hymns and harmonies - a post-quarantine miracle

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One thing I didn’t realise I missed during quarantine were Tongan hymns. The church my family attends sits idly along Mt Druitt Road, and enjoys the shade of a gumtree much older and grander and holier than the church itself. 

I’m not at all religious like my family, for I’ve found faith in plenty of ordinary things in life: letters from friends in the mail, cicadas singing in spring, that particular hue of aegean blue that allows you to see the contours of the mountains from afar. 

But the last time the Tongans at my family’s church congregated was maybe in March, and for months the only Tongan hymns I was hearing were crackled through the static of the Tongan radio and my grandma humming an old tune alone in her room.

Hearing their voices reunite in harmony so seamlessly, like silk, as if they weren’t apart for all these months, overwhelmed me. 


Was it homesickness that made me miss the harmonies of Tongan hymns or did I just reach my limit hearing my grandmother sing off key? 


It doesn’t matter now, I’ve finally heard them again. 















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