In my synagogue growing up, we had a vibrant tradition of journaling and reflection during services.  On the high holidays, they would assemble four tents in the four corners of the sanctuary and during services, it was common for community members to duck into a tent for a moment of quiet meditation or to jot down some ideas in a journal.  I always thought that writing was an integral part of Jewish practice.
When I got to college, I was so lonely.  I missed home and missed the Judaism I had grown up with.  When I spoke to my rabbi, she recommended that I try some of the synagogues off-campus.  She thought multi-generational community might be a balm to my soul.  So I got up my courage, found the nearest conservative synagogue, and headed there for shabbat morning services.
I was nervous. Uncomfortable. So worried about traffic that I left ridiculously early and got there with nearly a half an hour to spare before services.  Those were the days before we had to have security, so I wandered into the sanctuary and found a seat near the back.  I pulled out my journal and started writing a letter to God about how lonely I was, asking God to help me make this a good community, to help me feel at home.
Just then, a group of women walked up to me.  “What do you think you’re doing?!  We don’t write on shabbos!  And in the sanctuary of all places?!  How dare you!”
I was mortified. Alienated. Heart-broken.  I managed to blurt out some hasty apology.  The ladies started asking me questions about who I was and how I got there.  I answered, trying to hold it together, and waited for services to start.  As soon as they did, I fled to my car and cried all the way home.