When my son was young, he and I used to have a traditional way of observing Good Friday. My employer gave us the day off every year, so I welcomed the chance for a mother-and-son day.
It wasn’t all solemn. We often played in the yard or at the park, visited the local pet store where they had baby bunnies available for petting, we visited the cheesy Easter Bunny at the mall and had a picture taken. Then we went to church in the evening, often counting daffodils and forsythia blossoms along the way.
In those days, our church’s Good Friday service incorporated a solo liturgical dance performance, which my son called “the dancing man in the black pajamas.” Before the service was over, my son almost always fell asleep in the pew.