Call Me Tony "Shit-foot” Warriner

We were first-time solo pastors in a small backwoods community.

If you’ve ever read Frank Peretti’s The Oath — with its creeping darkness that takes on a life of its own — or Wayward Pines — with its eerie sense that something isn’t right beneath the surface — you’ll get the point.

That’s what it felt like. I was young, God was moving, things were happening — but for every step forward it felt like we were pushing against the very gates of hell.

One summer night in 2001 it all came to a head. As Sara and I were sitting out under the stars in our hot tub, the evening air seemed to take on a shape — you could almost feel demonic wings brushing by. A wolf howled. A Black Rider screamed somewhere in the distance. In the middle of all that, Sara started hyperventilating while I sat frozen, like a deer in headlights. Up to that moment I thought I had what it took to be a pastor and leader, but suddenly I felt small, inconsequential, completely out of my depth.

After a few minutes of silence (and palpable fear), we finally started praying. And we prayed. Hard. We pushed through in that moment, and it ended up being a profound experience of inner healing and alignment, especially for Sara (another story for another day).

A few days later, I’m in the basement chasing down a bad smell. It leads me to a closet in one of the kids’ rooms. I open the door and see what looks like a blob of mustard-colored goo. Without thinking, I step into it... barefoot. It’s cat diarrhea. “You idiot! Why did you do that?” I thought. It was fresh — hair, mice guts, sour milk — disgusting.

And right there, in the blink of an eye, I heard an almost audible whisper:

“In the spirit realm, angels know you as Shit-Foot.”

Yes, you read that right.

And believe it or not, I knew immediately it was God. Without a doubt . In seconds those words filled me with confidence and strength that would carry me through some of the hardest days of my work in Wayward Pines.

A little backstory is necessary here. When I was a teenager living in Bella Coola, I vividly remember an old guy named Clayton Mack. He looked like a character from Grumpy Old Men, but he was also one of the most prolific bear hunters ever. Member of the Nuxalk Nation, he guided hunters deep into BC’s wilderness, tracked behemoth grizzlies, survived being mauled (more than once), and time after time brought down his quarry.

Hunters gave him a nickname. Wanna guess? Yep: Shit-Foot. Because he had this trademark: always sticking his foot into massive piles of berry-filled bear scat. No, it wasn’t bad luck or clumsiness. He did this on purpose — to find out what the bear was eating, how fresh the sign was, and how close the animal might be.

It was the action of a hunter, not the hunted.

The Shift

That one small word from God reframed my whole season. I wasn’t a hapless pastor stirring up hornets’ nests, stumbling into messes (there were many in those early years!). I was a hunter. I was the predator. The darkness was running from me.

I might feel like I’m stepping in it, but actually, I’m tracking my quarry.

And in that instant, my perspective shifted from fear to mission: Let’s get this done.

Bottom line:

• What feels like foolishness could actually be evidence you’re in pursuit — not prey.

• That pressure pushing back may mean you’re pressing in.

• Failure isn’t final — it may be a sign you’re headed the right way.

• Closed doors can be God’s compass, steering you closer to the target.

• Resistance could in fact be your true north.

The mess under your feet? Might be the clearest sign that you’re hot on the trail.